The Story
“It is one of those days,” you tell yourself as you accept that you have no strength to escape the prison of your bed. It is one of those bluest of blue days when you fall into fits of useless considerations; ranging from “Wasn’t it embarrassing to mispronounce my own name in that meeting?” to “Am I worthy of happiness?”. While you wallow in your valley of unforgivable mistakes and unsaid arguments— a black bird flies in through your window and sits on your chest.
Owing to your lack of strength, you decide against shooing it away. Strangely, it feels comforting to have company; even if it means the company of a bird that many tribes would consider to be a bad omen. “What’s the worst that can happen? It looks harmless,” you comment and decide to befriend it. You forge a symbiotic bond with the bird. It visits you every day and, in exchange for its company, you feed it your time.
Initially, the bird visits you at your house. But after a few days, you start spotting it everywhere— in grocery store shelves, at your work desk in your office, in your friend’s parking garage. You also notice the changes in its size— its ritual of flying in and sitting on your chest now induces discomfort now. Its weight feels heavier with each visit.
What was a friendly encounter begins to feel like a nightmare. You know you can no longer bear its load. So, you decide to lock up the window; you decide to not let the bird in. On yet another blue day, you feel terrified that it will visit again. The closed window feels like a quiet assurance; a barrier between you and the bird.
The bird lands on your window sill and pecks at the window— a sign for you to open it. It looks at you observantly, waiting for you to leave the bed and welcome it again. No activity on your end prompts it to peck the window even more aggressively. Clutching the corners of your sheet, you think of ways to ignore the sound and then suddenly, you hear the shatter of the glass.
A shiver runs down your spine as you watch the bird’s silhouette against the backdrop of the setting sun. With utter disregard for your reluctance, it flies towards you and settles on your chest. You feel crushed beneath its weight and struggle to breathe. In a fit of rage, you throw your punches at it. But it sits there with utter indifference. Anger fades into the arms negotiation— you start bargaining with the bird. You promise to never shut the window; you plead it to give you one moment of relief.
Its indifference and your flailing breath deplete your reserve of hope. All sorts of imaginations flood your mind— sadness fills your lungs to compensate for oxygen. “What’s the worst that can happen?” you ask yourself and giggle at the change of the statement’s connotation now. You look at the bird, almost like a friend, and thank it for its company on your blue days. As an act of preparation to lose your battle, you close your eyes and decide to be grateful and give in.
Suddenly, you wake up with a stream of oxygen entering your chest. The jolt makes you sit up straight; it takes a while for the stars dancing before your eyes to disappear. You look around for the bird. It seems to have disappeared into thin air.
You try to forget the incident and decide to move on with your life. Happiness walks in and walks out like a regular customer at a diner. But you don’t care— you’re okay with how life is. You’re okay with walking back to your apartment in silence; okay that you have thoughts that contrast positivity; okay to be alone with yourself.
Until one day, when you sit to untangle your life, you realize that you miss the bird. You miss its presence that kept you company. It feels difficult to treat the incident like it never happened. You can feel the numbness take over you and drive you towards the closed window. You fling the panes open.
Suddenly, you feel a pull towards your bed. Your energy drains as you pull up your cover. Hopeful, you look at the open window. Faithful, the black bird appears again. But this time it introduces itself, “I’m grief,” it says and settles on your chest.
Grief As A Friend
Often, people don’t process their grief. Rather, they befriend it and start associating with it as part of their identity. They carry it everywhere they go and allow grief to settle in every sphere of their life. However, along the way, the grief grows too heavy to carry and ties its carrier to unhealthy coping mechanisms.
Psychiatrist Elisabeth Kübler-Ross developed the theory called “the Five Stages of Grief”. This theory, or rather a process, defines the grieving process. The five stages of grief include:
Denial: It is generally the first response to a hurtful situation. It emerges as part of our coping mechanism that allows us to absorb the shock of a painful incident. This stage is often preceded with numbness.
Anger: Aggrieved people can experience a rise of anger in themselves. This anger is expressed in the form of frustrated questions such as “Why do bad things happen to good people?” or “Why me? Why always me?”. Such people can exhibit their angst against their loved ones or even against inanimate objects.
Bargaining: This stage can also be seen as the stage of hope. People in this stage negotiate with themselves with questions of “what if?” and try to restore their sense of control over their life.
Depression: In the five stages, depression is not a state of mental illness. It is a state of experiencing loss. Intense sadness appears and reflects as physical symptoms such as loss of appetite, loss of motivation, fatigue, and distraction. However, all symptoms are temporary and they fade as a person moves to the last stage.
Acceptance: The final stage calls for acknowledgement of the loss and a person’s decision to readjust their life accordingly.
This theory is easier to teach in a class than to practice in real life. A person struggling to cope with a painful loss may not bear to read a list of “10 Things to Do to Get Over Pain”. But, despite the reluctance, the very awareness of these steps can act as a tool to restore peace.
Conclusion
The pursuit of grief feels normal to someone who finds solace in the recurrence of tragedy. It is easier to befriend grief than to trust fleeting visits of happiness. But what happens when the pursuit ends with a confrontation of the said grief? What happens when the grief reveals itself as a long-forgotten sorrow that has been kept alive beyond its expiration date?
