The Grief in the Attic

I sat with my eyes clenched shut and imagined a cardboard box sitting in front of me. Large enough to hold all the contents I wished to put into it, but not big enough that I would miss it if I went looking for it. With that visual in mind, I began to place the events of July 28th and August 6th into the box.

The first thing I put into the box were the moments that I watched Laina and Sophie’s last breath seep out of them. Then I put in the moments leading up to those events. Then on top, I placed the moments directly following those events. The ones where I couldn’t deny that they were actually gone.

Once I’d sufficiently packed up all those moments and memories, I imagined taping the box shut just right — so I could maybe pull it open a little inch at a time and take a peek. But enough so that the box stayed closed.

Then, I took the box and put it in the attic of my mind to be dealt with later. I knew those moments, memories, and emotions were safe in the box. I knew the box would stay full and ready when I could unpack it again. I said a quick goodbye to the contents residing in the box and opened my eyes.

• • •

For as long as I can remember in my adult life, I’ve treated my grief this way. Shoving it in individual boxes, all lined up in tidy rows in the attic of my mind. Some of the boxes have never been opened. Some have been peeled back slowly and emptied. While others are in a state of lock and key.

As a trauma survivor and trauma-informed coach, I know this “boxing-it-up” method of compartmentalizing my grief isn’t the preferred or the healthiest way to go about processing what I’m feeling. But I also know that it’s my route of safety.

Grief demands to be felt, yes. But it’s also funny in that it will bend and conform to your will for a little while. Sometimes a particular box of grief will spontaneously combust, and I have no choice but to deal with the contents, but mostly, for a little while at least, they stay packed away as I put them.

After losing our oldest dogs, Sophie and Laina, the grief and heartbreak was so intense… so undesirably painful, that I had to put them in the box. Even though I wanted to stop the turning of the world for just a bit and soak in what was happening within me, I just couldn’t.

I took one day off. Then I went back to work. I went back to my responsibilities. I went back into “work-until-exhaustion” mode to stave off reminders of the box, and it’s contents.

It’s interesting how often people would comment on this, almost in relief. They would ask, “how are you doing?” And I would reply with, “I’m doing okay.” Which wasn’t a lie. I was doing okay. Because I wasn’t allowing myself to feel anything.

Then someone else would say, “Wow, you’re doing amazingly well! I couldn’t get out of bed for a week after my pet died.”

I would smile and brush it off. I wanted to say, “Yeah, I would be too, but I can’t. Because if I let myself go there, I won’t get out of bed. I won’t find a reason to get up and move forward.”

Of course, I didn’t say that.

I wish I could tell you that I’ve been able to open the box, but that would be a lie. Even in writing about NOT feeling grief — I’m not feeling the grief.

It’s a very strange predicament to be in when the thing you rely on for everything in your life isn’t working. I thought writing this article would allow me to peel back a little bit of the tape on the box. Instead, it feels as sticky and boxed up as when I first put it away.

Maybe it’s too soon. Maybe my mind/brain is protecting me from what I’m truly scared of.

What I know is that once I can tap into it, there will be a floodgate. There will be tears, guttural screams, and a desire to want to crawl into a ball and die.

I also know that the page will be there when I’m ready for it. It will be a willing witness. And it will hold those tears, those screams. It will hold my desire for death to come to me. It will hold everything my grief has been holding.

And for that, I’m eternally grateful. To know that I have a place to turn to when I’m ready is a lifeline of sorts.

But I wouldn’t be honest if I told you I was ready to open the box.

I’m not.

But when I am ready… you will be my witness, too.