By Stacey Shannon
The thing about grief is:
I can’t trust myself.
No matter how I rail against this part of my life/year/self, that is the bottom line. It is part of me. And though I may disregard it for 11 out 12 months of the year, it’s always there. It WILL come at me like Shane Stant came at Nancy Kerrigan with a club. When it arrives, it does what it always does. It hobbles my knees and runs away as I fall to the ground, asking “Why, why?”.
No, I’m tired of asking why. I’ll never really know. Moving on, next question:
When? Nope, done asking when. When will it be over? The answer to that one is always the same and it is this: never.
How? That’s a good one. Let’s unpack that. (Don’t you hate when people say that? It’s so douchey. “I know you are feeling rotten right now, let’s unpack that’! How about, NO?) How best to navigate these two weeks every winter, every fucking winter, 18 winters and counting. How? I’m not going to answer that. Because when I do answer that question, I immediately discount my own answer. Simply because: I can’t trust it. Continue Reading…