The Quicksand of Grief

Everyone's experience with grief is different, but for me, grief is like quicksand. It pulls me down, miring me in one place, preventing me from moving ahead. 

Those of us who grew up in the 1980s saw endless depictions of heroes being sucked into quicksand. Any motion would pull them down until they vanished, never to be seen again. 

In reality, due to the relative densities of quicksand and the human body, it is essentially impossible to drown in quicksand. It is very possible, however, to get stuck. Fast movements, such as those of someone who is struggling or panicking, change the viscosity of the quicksand, which causes the person to sink to a certain depth. Only by slow, calm movements and rotating the body into a supine, horizontal position will the person begin to float and be able to escape. 

That's what grief feels like sometimes. The more you struggle to escape it, the more it sucks you back down. It is only when you can bring yourself to relax and accept where you are that it begins to release you. 

The zone between the two extremes can be the hardest of all. You have stopped fighting against it, but you're not yet relaxed or free, and any movement feels like you are weighed down by a heavy anchor, in danger of slipping deeper into the mire. Getting started on anything, from complicated tasks like paperwork and financials to the basic daily work of running a load of laundry or vacuuming the house or making an appointment, feels next to impossible. All you want to do is freeze in place. I am reminded of the sad, haunting song "Losing My Mind" from Stephen Sondheim's "Follies":

The sun comes up, I think about you
Coffee cup, I think about you
I want you so, it's like I'm losing my mind

The morning ends, I think about you
I talk to friends, I think about you
And do they know it's like I'm losing my mind?

All afternoon, doing every little chore
The thought of you stays bright
Sometimes I stand in the middle of the floor
Not going left, not going right

These lyrics so perfectly depict where I'm at right now. I'm going through the motions the best that I can, but truly, sometimes I do stand in the middle of the floor, completely paralyzed, with no idea which way to go. I still feel so lost, like part of me is missing and I can't go on alone. And part of me is missing, but I can go on alone. I just have to get started. 

The positive thing is that I've reached the point where if I can just get started, more often than not I can keep going. If I can get myself to open the folder of paperwork and start filling out the form, there's a pretty good chance I'll finish it. If I can get myself to bring the vacuum cleaner up from the basement, I'll probably be able to vacuum most of the house. If I can get myself to look up the phone number, chances are I'll make the call. If I can get myself to agree to going out with a friend, I'll genuinely have a good time once I get there. 

But with grief, like with quicksand, it's important to go slowly. To carefully feel out each step. To pause when you feel yourself sinking. And most importantly, to reach out for the hand of a friend.