The Boxes in my Brain

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Recently, I’ve been wondering where grief goes. When you lose someone you love, the grief is almost overwhelming. Rational thoughts are suspended, as disbelief and loss suffocate all other feelings.

Grief paints the present and the future a dull, monotonous grey and denies access to the past, because memories are too painful to bring to mind.

But after a while, the grief subsides and normal life, such as it might be, takes over. In the absence of a loved one, life will never be the same, but it carries on none the less. I used to think that grief somehow gradually drained away. But now, I think it is crammed into a box in my brain. From time to time, the lid raises and little bit of grief escapes, filling my eyes with tears and making me long for something I can never have. I assumed that each painful episode in my life would have its own box. But now, I’ve come to the conclusion there’s just one big container where all the sadness is stored. And that’s a shame because each time something painful happens, the lid of the box has to be raised, allowing the entire contents of the box to flood out filling my brain like fog, before the new pain can be packed away.

But knowing what to expect helps put the prospect of future heartache into perspective, because in the end, the grief is always pushed back in the box and the lid is replaced, giving some respite.

Or perhaps you know otherwise?