The grief of what has happened, the grief of the present, the grief at the loss of your perceived future. Grief at what you thought were happy times tainted by another’s dissatisfaction. Not enough. Not good enough. Too much. Too bloody much. Grief at the sense of loss. Grief at the down right fucking pain and sorrow that permeates your being.
I’ve lost people. I’ve cried and grieved and felt their loss in days, weeks, months, years. I’ve seen them on the streets and caught glimpses of them passing in cars. Smelt their aftershave and perfume in the wind. Knowing they’re home under the earth had claimed them long ago. But to live with a ghost.
To live with someone who smells, talks and farts like the man I’ve loved my whole adult life and realise that I don’t know him. That the man I loved is dead. Or never really existed in the first place.
I grieve for my belief in him. I grieve for my trust in him. Respect. Loyalty. The knowledge that he had my back. That no matter what he was my biggest supporter my number one fan my… no wait, I don’t think he has ever been that. I think that was how I was with him. I don’t think that was ever how he was with me, so I grieve for the loss of that too. I grieve for the realisation of reality. The cold clinical hard reality that he has never loved me the way that I want to be loved. Maybe he can never love me that way. But then, maybe the truth is that no one can. I’ll pop that in the basket with all the other grievances and go and make myself a cup of tea.
At the end of the day, grief is grief and life is life. I choose life.