Good Grief (7)
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The Cup That Needs Emptying (Revised)
"A visitor's witnessing"
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Saw someone today stare at their therapist's "How are you feeling?" chart for ten minutes. Finally pointed to all of them. The therapist nodded like this was the first honest answer all day.
People here doubt sorrow. Like suspecting food poisoning from something that's actually medicine. Fear connected to meeting it alone. Scheduled crying for shower only, where nobody asks questions.
Can't open to the complete range. Too much breaking for one heart's bandwidth. So hearts close. Smart phones, stupid hearts, everything protected by passwords. Wisdom in numbing, avoiding, anesthetizing. Netflix as novocaine. Conditions are fragmented. Work from home but never leave work. Together but isolated. Touching screens more than skin.
Psyche recognizes proper space for sorrow. Why you cry in cars, bathroom stalls, while jogging. Without right frequency, sorrow won't move. Like trying to cry in Zoom therapy with roommates listening. Grief compacts. Sedimentary sadness becoming depression limestone.
People say "depressed" like it explains everything. The prescription, the diagnosis, the excuse. But maybe it's compression - unprocessed sorrow. Backed up like emotional constipation. Not just personal grief but generational accumulation. Inherited weight, compound interest on ancestral pain.
What's needed is faith that sorrow isn't taking hostages. It's more river than dam. Supreme evidence of aliveness. Strange how breaking proves you're not broken, just human.
Sorrow interwoven with devotion. Can't untangle them, like Christmas lights in July. We grieve because love got harmed. The heart's receipts for everything that mattered. Dismissed, dishonored, disappeared. And we grieve that, as we should, as we must.
Maybe grief needs witnesses more than healing. Like plants growing toward whoever talks to them. Isolation makes it unbearable, not the sorrow itself. Sorrow shared becomes something else - still sad but breathable.
What if we trusted grief like seasons? Knowing winter serves purpose even when everything looks dead. What if the cup needs regular emptying? Like taking out sacred trash, composting holy garbage.
Still learning drowning and flowing feel similar but aren't. Still discovering everyone's cup is overflowing. Still witnessing how love persists in every grief.
