Stages of Grief

Hello, my name isn’t important but for the sake of the exercise, it’s Mattie. I’ve never stood amongst strangers to profess my grief. In fact, I’ve never expressed it to myself, much less anyone else in this living, breathing, fucked up world. I apologize. I’ve sat here for weeks listening in the corner and wishing I never came, yet I come every week, hoping that things will change. I hoped that stories would be different or that I wouldn’t feel the need to come at all. To be quite frank, candid, shoot from my hip, if I may, I think you all suck. You cry and tell your stories, believing that it will make you feel better. If only you knew that maniacally I chuckle beneath my breath in that very corner over there. Can you move your head to the side please? Yeah, right there in that chair is where I think to myself, I say, “what pathetic fools”. 

It seems a blanket of hush eased over the room. You all stare at me like I’m a problem. I’m disrupting your pity party. They are all gone, get over it! Put on your big person pants and accept that you are alive and they aren’t. You’ve made it to see another day, you can enjoy the breeze on a hot day and it feels damn good. You get to experience the world if you want or don’t have to, but the point is you can choose. You can choose. You can fucking choose. You know who can’t choose? Erica. Who’s Erica? My best friend. She doesn’t get to choose. She doesn’t get to choose to wake up, get dressed, spend time with her brother, mother or piece of shit dad. She doesn’t get to choose to drive down these miserable streets and pretend people don’t suck. She loved to go to the movies, only comedy because she loved to laugh. You’d be lucky to hear her laugh. It was the most wonderful and painful noise. She sounded like a hog and I fucking miss it. She didn’t get to chose. If she did, she wouldn’t have chose to die. She wouldn’t have been victim to the asshole who pretended to love her, the one who took advantage of her. The one who took her life. I, I didn’t have a choice. I didn’t get to say goodbye. I don’t get to take a life for a life, I don’t get to cry because my tears are gone. I’m shriveled and dead inside. Why do we do this? Who said this was a good idea? To stand here and tell these stories, reliving the trauma and tainting our memories. Who said this would help? Do you feel better? Seriously sir. You lost your wife and can’t even say her name. How about you, little, big baby? You drone on and on about your ex-boyfriend. We get it, he dumped you and then died in an accident the same night three years ago. Why are you still coming here? It clearly isn’t working for you. Oh, and how about you, our fearless leader? You tell us every week that we are a little bit stronger, wiser, and free from the pain we hold inside. You say that but I catch you rubbing that necklace in your pocket. I used to think you were rubbing something else until you took it out. You caress it and kiss it and shed that single dramatic tear. You tell us things that you don’t believe yourself. Why should I, we, listen to any damn thing you got to say? 

Grief is for the weak, for the pathetic, pitiful, wretched, miserable, poor creatures who steal the souls of their loved ones. That’s right, you capture their souls and jam it into a bottle that you dress up in bells and whistles. No matter what you do to make such a heinous act look innocent, you hoard the lives and memories prisoner instead of allowing them to rest. Ball and chain, they will remain with you, and for what? 

Sorry, please forgive me, for this is my process. I’ll leave in peace, no need to charge at me or throw me out. Erica, Paige, Cameron, Antoine, Mariah, Larry, and the rest of you tied to these idiots, free yourself for these people won’t show your souls mercy. 

Thank you for allowing me to share.

~ Gala Serks

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