Everyone processes grief differently.
I go down the road of initial explosive emotional response, then gradual compartmentalisation until I am in a complete state of denial.
Every now and then I open one of the grief doors to check on the pain. I bask in the the breathtaking, smashed-in feeling for just a second, then heave the door shut again. It doesn’t leave much of an imprint, just enough that I feel slightly unsettled for the rest of the day.
Today I am preparing for one of the compartments to bust open of its own volition.
I’m predicting that today, at some point, I will be in the foetal position silent towel crying.
Silent towel crying usually occurs when I have woken up in a panic about something in the middle of the night, realised I am completely overwhelmed by aforementioned something and need to cry like a small baby, but don’t want to trouble any of the people I live with.
I silent towel cry in either the bathroom or laundry (as both rooms have towels available to muffle my sobs.) The bathroom is preferable as the towels in the laundry are usually gross and the smell distracts me from my all consuming melancholy.
I once burst a blood vessel in my eye I was silent towel crying with such commitment!
Today, my grandfather Ted will have been dead a year.
Ouch. Double ouch.
GFT and I were tight.