Grief Is for People

by Sloane Crosley

My delusion is not exactly aided by the “survivor” label, which itches like a rental costume. Surely, these people can’t mean me. I did not experience what Russell experienced and live through it. I am, at best, nonsurvivor-adjacent.

Then there’s the group’s custom of introducing yourself by stating your relationship to the deceased and how this person died (my best friend, with the rope, in the barn). This, too, seems not meant for me. If you never shared a bed with the object of your grief, impostor syndrome sets in. For all this mandolining of loss, friendships are practically left out of the equation. This is the one type of relationship experienced by everyone on the planet, but when it comes to suicide? Friendship takes the backseat.

They tended to fight with the vigor of teenagers. I always marveled that, after so many years, they still cared enough to want to murder each other. Where I come from, all discontent is registered through a series of passive-aggressive barbs or by responding to a question that has been asked only once as if it’s been asked fifty times in a row.

The guilt of this moment changes in diameter but never evaporates. To mourn the death of a friend is to feel as if you are walking around with a vase, knowing you have to set it down but nowhere is obvious. Others will assure you that there’s no right way to do this. Put it anywhere. But you know better. You know that if you put your grief in a place that’s too prominent or too hidden, you will take it back when no one’s looking. This is why I spend my nights looking into the restaurant. I fantasize about keeping Russell in front of me for a little longer, asking him questions, knowing nothing either of us says will change the outcome. Each time the restaurant closes. Each time he drops me off at my door. Each time he walks off into the dark. And then he’s gone. And I am still holding this vase.

A sudden loss is not inherently worse than an expected one, but it is more likely to feel like it can be undone. It’s the difference between forgetting your car keys at home and forgetting them on the driver’s seat, where you can still see them. You’re locked out either way.

“You cannot hope to console yourself for your grief by writing. You cannot deceive yourself by hoping for caresses and lullabies from your vocation.”

Outrage and indignation have an intellectual feel, but anger is guttural. Some element of the world did not hold up its end of the bargain and anger is the debt collector.