Grief is like a strong stain on your white shirt

When I was 16, I lost my mom to cardiac arrest, a reason I still find suspicious. I have said it a couple of times in my blog entries. The fact that that phrase has been reiterated multiple times already signifies how haunting grief is, like an unwanted visitor knocking on your door unexpectedly, and there is no time to hide because the door has already been opened.

For four years without my mother, I have gradually detached myself from grief. It slowly slipped away in time that felt like an eternity in the beginning. It shifted from slow internet access into an upgraded mbps.

I can still remember the early years I had to deal with it. We went home after the burial to a house that would no longer sense her presence. The walls would not hear her high-pitch voice again. The bed would not feel the touch of her loose skin for another time. The kitchen would no longer smell her average viands. The floor wound never ever come in contact again with her tiny feet on always-dry slippers. The car’s steering wheel would no longer feel the grip of her bony hands and the heat of her butt pressing against the car seat. The dogs would forever wonder where did their favorite human go and when would she be returning. And I would never again feel the warmth of her embrace, the softness of her lips kissing me my chubby cheeks as I bid goodbye for school or a hangout. The home will never be bright again because it had already lost its ilaw ng tahanan.

I cannot recall when it exactly happened, but I am aware that I am getting better as the day goes by. My life continued without the most important person I treasure. I went to school as usual. I visit malls or watch a movie like how most teenagers would spend their free time. I had other problems, and I had other joys. Finally, the time came, as I calm myself to sleep, I was surprised to realize that I was no longer helplessly crying all night for my regrets and my forever gone mother.

My book continued to write chapters. In time, I was no longer hooked up to the idea of healing—little did I know that I have already moved on. As I’ve said, I continued to live. I have decided to stand up from my bed—lifted up my head from my tear-wet pillow. My mom’s strength and resilience would knock me from my pitiful state, telling me that she would not be happy and peaceful to witness my situation. My mom is a positive person despite her lack of resources to be happy. I don’t know what motivated her; what I know is she motivates me.

I am now 20-years-old, standing on a platform that is not yet fully established. I am building my own fortress, where our dreams are the materials that make it durable. When I was 16, I just hoped for the day to come to finally be healed from all the trauma. Now, I have learned that it would never heal—it would just adapt and mend. I have learned that I will be forever be haunted by grief, but that doesn’t mean that I will always be grieving.

Living with grief is a skill that I have never subscribed to, but I would like to think I have mastered it. I am still the girl who weeps at night, but I am no longer that girl who keeps on doing it. I have learned to control my tears and to manage my grief. During Mother’s Day and other special occasions, I still get remorseful that I could not spend it with her. However, unlike the 16-year-old girl who got jealous of other children, I am happy to see them spend joyous times with their mothers. I took over that version of myself, and now it no longer exists.

The thing with grief is you could never go away with it. See, my heart still aches thinking about that 2:00AM when I witnessed her death in the hospital room. I still deal with my regrets and guilt. The rain continues to remind me of that moment in the car on our way home where all the voices are muted, and the only sound I could hear is raindrops. I still linger for the upcoming special events that she would not be able to witness. There are also unpredictable times that an avalanche of thoughts knocks me over. And right now, my tears are unprecedentedly falling unto my newly-washed pillowcases. These are visuals that remind me that I am still not healed and that I would never be... but I have learned to accept that.

Healing doesn’t always mean full immunity. The wound is still existent, and every time it gets exposed to a trigger, it stings. Getting used to the pain does not equate to recovery; you just learn how to cope up with it.

Grief is like an earthquake. There is no way to know when it will be coming; there will be no alarms, no reminders—no time for preparations. It comes as a surprise; however, unlike typical surprises, there will be no widened eyes, opened mouths, and lips transforming into a smile at once. Once it appears, it shakes your foundation, as if testing your ability to withstand it. It stirs the emotions you have been trying to hold back for long.

When grief comes knocking on your door, your immediate response is a deep inhale, and an exhale of frustration. Sighing, "Here we go again." With no escape, you welcome it again and entertain it in your humbly longing home. Grief is insurmountable, but it is not an enemy nor a friend. It is a constant visitor that reminds you of your tormented past you no longer want to remember but is vital to recall. Grief is an essential part of yourself that is required to live. It makes you whole by tearing out your pieces of just for you to rebuild all over again, creating newer and more improved versions of yourself.

Grief is like a strong stain on your favorite white shirt. You wash it many times using countless stain removers and detergents, yet it remains. Then, you will realize that the fabric will blunt and loosen, losing its original form. So, you stop doing it and accept that the stain will leave a mark that would resemble a memory you have regretted. And it’s up to you if you treasure and keep using that shirt or make it as a rag. In my case, I choose to wear it.