The funny thing about grief is no one truly knows what it is, or how it feels like until they experience it themselves.
No one has ever taught me how to survive through the six stages of grief, and when grief hits you, it hits you hard.
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The first stage was denial.
I remember the night when I received the call. It was raining and thunder roared loudly. Heavy splatters of rain smacked loudly against the windows and the floor outside the apartment.
I was sitting on the couch in the living room. The house was only lit by the standing lamp by the TV console. I glanced up from my laptop which I was using to browse my unread emails from school, as I stared at my blurred reflection against the dark TV screen.
There was something in my gut that tells me something wasn’t right, yet I couldn’t exactly pinpoint what. I chewed on my bottom lip anxiously, eyes fleeting to the digital clock on the TV console.
11:54 PM.
I looked at my phone on the seat beside me, hoping for at least a text from you. I didn’t want to send a message to you, not wanting to disturb the time you’re finally spending with your friends after a long week of work.
As if on cue, the screen of my phone lit up. I grabbed it in a brisk motion, frowning when it was your mother’s name instead of yours. When I swiped the screen and put the phone to my ears, your mother’s sobbing made the tightening feeling around my neck worsen. The words that spilt out from her mouth next made me freeze.
“Jacob got into a car accident. There’s a chance he won’t survive.”
Your mum continued by mentioning the details of the crash and the injuries you’ve suffered and yet, my ears don’t seem to be following her words when all I could think of was you not surviving a car crash. But how? You didn’t have a driving license. Had one of your friends get their licence? Where were you guys going?
I wasn’t given a chance to ask these brewing questions in my head when your mum told me the name of the hospital you were admitted to, before hanging up.
Tonight, the house seemed extra cold and it wasn’t only because of the rain.
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As I stood in front of your body which was covered by the white cloth, a small part of my brain wished that maybe this wasn’t true. That for whatever chances in the world, this person had the same name as you. That maybe this whole ordeal was a nightmare.
I stood frozen by the edge of the table as your parents moved closer to you, your mother’s hands shakily lifting the edge of the cloth. By how your parents took a sharp intake of breath, a part of my heart broke when the possibility of all these being real. Your mother’s sniffing grew louder and more frantic as your father held onto her as if they were seeking comfort from each other. I couldn’t look away from your body — cold, lifeless, soulless.
Before I realised it, my feet moved me towards the door and out of the room. I leaned against the wall, shutting my eyes forcefully. As if that could change the setting I was in.
Even after I had reached home, showered, and laid in bed while staring up at the dark ceiling, I prayed that this was a nightmare I could wake up from
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Then it was anger.
It wasn’t anger directed at you, your parents or your friends.
It was directed to myself.
I kept asking myself: what if I insisted you stayed home instead? What if I have tagged along when you asked me then, instead of wanting to stay home? Would I have taken your spot instead?
I was angry at myself for not being able to do anything. There was nothing I could do to bring you back and absolutely nothing I could do to stop this ache in my chest.
Days started passing in a blur and you had never once left my mind. To others, I probably look normal as hell — laughing at jokes my friends said, driving into Starbucks to pick up my daily coffee before school. Yet inside of me, it was as if my body was filled with poison that was growing ever so slightly when there are reminders that you are no longer with me.
Remember those days when I had a rough day at school and I could always complain to you? You always knew what to say to comfort me. You always sat in front of me at the dining table and would always let me put my feet on top of yours when the floor was cold from the winter.
Yet now, there was no one I could speak to. No one to complain to. No one to set my feet on top of. As I sat at the dining table alone for dinner, I was angry at how lonely I suddenly felt. Staring at the seat in front of me, I was angry at myself for still putting a set of cutlery and an empty plate as if you would return for dinner.
I had no idea how many days had passed ever since you had passed, but yet every single time without fail as I looked out the window, my throat would tighten in the oh-so-familiar way when I spotted other families together, other couples laughing at whatever jokes their partner had said. The more this happens, the more anger directed at me was directed to the world.
Mad at how fast the world took you away from me. Mad at how you left me way too soon. Mad at how I still couldn’t let you go.
Today, I let the first tear roll down my cheeks.
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If this happened to someone else, I would have found this situation ridiculous and stupid.
Every day and every night, I would pray and hope to God to let me come back alive again. If God would turn back time, I would promise to keep you at home at night. If you could come back alive, I would promise to be so, so, so much better as a person. I would be a better girlfriend to you, I’ll be more filial to both our parents and I’ll do more charity work.
When those didn’t work, I thought, what if I died too? Would I see you again?
It would have happened if Mia—my best friend who once tried to hit on you and then got so embarrassed when she found out we’re already dating—didn’t stop me before I down those pills. I had considered what would be the most painless way to go and figured sleeping pills were probably the best.
I allowed myself to cry in her arms, tears staining the cotton fabric of her shirt as she tried to spill logical senses into my ears while gently caressing the top of my head like you would.
It was at this moment, that I realised the bargaining stage has came knocking on my door.
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When I reached the depression stage, I wished I didn’t meet you. If I didn’t, I wouldn’t have to suffer like this then.
Do you know how tiring this is? To constantly be alone with my thoughts and have the reality set from the moment I open my eyes every morning. I started to ignore the calls and messages sent from family and friends, and started to stay home more often because I was so so so tired of crying and feeling like shit.
I thought sleeping would work best since it kept you out of my mind. You had the guts to visit my dreams.
As I pulled the covers over my head again, I really don’t know what else I could do to have you out of my mind.
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Today, as I kneel in front of your tombstone and reminisce on the memories we had, I realised the heavy, gutting feeling in my chest was no longer prominent. Instead of hating myself for reliving all the memories, I realised I have been carrying a ghost of a smile—something that hasn’t happened long ago.
I cleaned the small, oval picture on your stone. The smile you had in the picture was the one that made me fall in love with you back then. Love—while sweet, hurts sometimes.
“I’ll see you again, someday.” My voice was barely a whisper, but I knew you could hear me. You always do.
While the words seem heavy to voice out, my body, my mind, and my chest seem so much lighter. Maybe this was what closure feels like.
It hurts in the slightest way yet, I could find the power to move on.
Today, I reached the acceptance stage.
Written by: Blondie Tan
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