Five Stages of Grief

A dabble at first person perspective about a girl consumed with grief over the loss of her friend and the neighbor who unintentionally brought her comfort.

I could pinpoint the day the tsunami wave of pain crashed down upon my world, drowning all my hopes, dreams and happiness with its gut-wrenching misery. I know that sounds dramatic but keep in mind that pain wasn’t something I’ve been familiarly acquainted with. I had dealt with the knee scrapes by taking a turn too fast on the hand-me-down Batman bike I’d learned to ride on. I had twisted my ankle playing “King of the Hill” recklessly on a stack of jagged branches in the woods behind my grandma’s trailer. I had even fallen hand first on to a rusty nail from a broken fence board playing hide and seek at night. These experiences healed, albeit leaving nasty scars and a funny looking ankle bone, but superficial in the grand spectrum that is pain.

So when I was faced with a new contender of pain, losing my best friend, it was a knockout in the first round. Despite my relatively cheerful childhood, the increasingly shady neighborhood I grew up in left me guarded and distrusting. What little good that did for me. Friendship was never easy to come across, not because I wasn’t a people person, or your average female but because I was happy with having one friend, and perhaps several people I’m familiar with, if only in passing. One person to confide in, to lean on, to bask in the rewards for effort.

Jessie, short for Jessica wasn’t graced with the same childhood I am fortunate enough to have had. Her bitter, often violent father and drunken mother had often left her insecure yet admirably independent and wise beyond her years. “Pain is relative” she would tell me, quoting a philosopher I was both ignorant and apathetic towards. Though I often found it comforting when I wanted to confide my latest, sometimes shallow drama. So I should have known that this pain was inevitable when Jessie turned to the liquid form of comfort, rather than the companion’s sort that I was too self-centered to provide. I was naive to think she’d bounce back from this woe, like she had every other. And she had, in a way. She gave up the drinking and instead turned to an entire bottle of sleep aids that she’d “borrowed” from her mother. My perfectly flawed companion that encouraged me to seek out my independence by moving into a small house with her, miles away from my family, my lifelines. It’s ironic how co-dependent I had truthfully became. I would now have nobody to scold me for my irrational self-deprecating tendencies.

Irony had become a common occurrence in my life. My mundane daily routine had been done in a zombie-like trance with catatonic bouts in between since Jessie’s death. The day I returned to our home painted in a cheerful pastel yellow, clad in my suitable funeral attire. I had been hesitant to enter, when I happened upon my neighbor. The very same man that Jessie jokingly said was creepy with his dark almost cold stare, which deterred from the rest of his attractive features, a highlight being his baby face, atop an all man’s body. I had whole-heartedly agreed with her assessment and yet the empathetic look he gave me, somehow knowing the ordeal I’d just gone through, provided me a comfort I had refused to find with a simple call to my parents.

The very same dark, cold eyes consoled me in a way no phone call ever would and I found myself seeking them in a horribly obsessive way each time I stepped outside. Each day he was missing felt like a punch to the stomach and the obsession steadily grew in an entirely embarrassing pace. This neighbor was the remaining link to my beloved friend. He had been the only breathing soul close to me that remembered Jessie’s laugh and was unperturbed that it was usually directed at him.

My days were often spent in a boring routine of work at menial desk job, dealing with accounts via phone for a transportation company with a paycheck that barely allowed me to pay the rent by myself. After work I’d drive the half hour trip listening to the low hum of the local radio station that played “80s, 90s and today’s greatest hits” and tune out to thoughts of the ridiculous pitch Jessie and I would use to sing along. Once home I would change out of the my professional work attire of a pleated skirt and collared button-down shirt for my casual comfort clothes of sweats, pajama bottoms and a loose fitted T-shirt. I’d sit on the ugly yet comfy loveseat I’d picked with Jessie from a secondhand store it’d been donated to and allow the TV to watch me. Eventually I’d feel claustrophobia creep up as if I’m suffocating in my enclosing walls and sit upon the curb of my driveway like I had so many drunken nights with Jessie. I’d obsessive watch for my neighbor’s car wondering if he’d have company that night and found myself jealous of the blonde girl with features that screamed close relation or the hostile brunette who he always seemed to be placating, an ex-perhaps.

Recollection was both my biggest enemy and my dearest friend. The good memories of nights full of vulgar conversations with Jessie that often left me a stunning shade of tomato red were worse than my most recent memories of picking Jessie up out of her piss puddles and carrying her to the bathroom where I’d shove my fingers down her throat to empty her stomach of the pills she’d consumed before forcing her into the cold shower fully clothed. I’d never bring it up the next morning or mention it for the sake of her dignity.

Every time I’d meet my neighbor’s eyes I’d question my previous assessment of his stare being cold and emotionless. I recognized the guarded, distrusting attitude with which he carried himself, and often found myself arguing defensively with the inner monologue narrated by Jessie consisting of the jokes and unfair judgments she made about him. I suppose I held onto the anger I felt for her death because I preferred it over the swallowing sorrow. I’d feel guilty for the inability to cry. It seemed like a mean childish thing you scream at another in a fit, “If you died, I wouldn’t cry for you!” She deserved tears at least. 

When I wasn’t angry with Jessie I became self-destructive and played the what-if game. I should have, could have done so many things to prevent this. Instead of taking my typical passive-aggressive approach of cold shouldering Jessie after a notably bad night where I’d stayed awake 26 hours checking her pulse, literally every ten minutes, I could have screamed at her, slapped some sense into her. I honestly could never raise a hand to hit her, not only because I imagined it in slow motion as if pushing through water with the resulting blow, but I knew her father was a violent disciplinarian and I’d hate myself more. I could have taken her pills from her creative stash spots and flushed them or even sold them to the local high school kids who couldn’t tell if they were overpriced. Then if Jessie had gotten angry I would show her the cash she’d get the biggest kick out of such an immoral task, done by me no less. I would’ve honestly flushed them and been in good conscience, having considered the feelings of the parents of said high-schoolers, who hate the thought of their child on drugs, accepting the resulting resentment from such a violation of trust or privacy. I wouldn’t have been such an enabler by agreeing to drink with her in celebration for not having partook in her escape for a couple of nights. That’s all it was, not an addiction to alcohol or pills, it was an everlasting search for escape, or let loose from her carefully constructed need for control of every inapplicable detail; something we’d often squabble over.

If I had even bothered to feel anything I’d be ashamed when my neighbor looked knowingly at me for my obsessive behavior. I’d advert my stare in mortification when the blonde who I assumed was his sister would look over with unwelcome sympathy, part hopefulness and part curiosity as she murmured questions to her brother.

They, people, psychiatrists, therapist and society tell you there are five stages of grief. Denial and isolation, anger, bargaining, depression then acceptance. I keep waiting for the last shoe to drop and crying into my cheerios after finally accepting that Jessie will never walk across the threshold of our home with a goofy “Oh Lucy, I’m home!”

What you’re not told is that day may never come.

Author's Note

Any correction I can make is welcome, I'm not use to writing in first person

Reviews

[HOLyP]

No correction needed. This was perfect as it is and I could honestly not think of any valid criticism. Your eloquence is stunning and the depth of detail is, well deep. I loved it and would like to encourage you to write more, you certainly have a talent for it!

[Briana Burd]

Thanks, this really made my month. This is a very personal piece and the first I've allowed people to read.

[HOLyP]

You're welcome :) I would appreciate it if you could take a quick look at my book Hindsight. I know, shameless self-advertisement :D