Truth is subjective. Selective. Suppressive. A topic that one may either deplore or revere. It’s an interesting concept; that we accept the spoken word of a person based off their candour. They say that truth is a fact – a certainty – and that fact is absolute. So why do I disagree? Why does this supposed truth seem so wrong? Throughout history the truth has been ‘written by the victors’; it has been warped and abused but who are we to question this strain of absolutism? Trust is also a peculiar little notion. Trust us, trust in us, they say. But why should we trust in their supposed truth, subscribe to their lies? I refuse. I refuse to allow myself to give weight to their words. They say that the truth hurts but why? Why should I allow myself to feel the pain they would inflict upon me with their words of ‘truth’? If truth is subjective then why am I expected to simply accept their edict; to submit to the truth? I do not believe in their truth. I will not believe in their truth. I cannot believe in their truth.  

They say not to blame ourselves but they do not understand. They cannot comprehend our accountability. The idea of blame is ironic. People are always willing to readily cast blame on others but still they say we shouldn’t blame ourselves. As if there is a difference. If we are justified to condemn others, then why should we not condemn we who rightfully wrong. Their consoling, their pity, is not helpful. It is not liberating. It is not ‘freeing’. Their attempts to placate – to mollify – are unwanted. Instead, their words are responsible for constricting the cords of culpability encompassing me. I choose to shoulder my responsibility. I choose to recognise my failure. I am to blame. It is my fault. Fault lies not with those who seem to deserve it but with those who would condemn themselves.  I am to be condemned, sentenced to carry the fault I am deserving of. We cannot help but what ourselves, ‘what if?’. They say it does not do to dwell on the possibilities of what might have – could have – been. That the right thing to do is move forwards. But I feel as though I will never free to ease my sinful conscience.  

How can one ever truly wrap one’s head around the paradox of fairness? How can they comment on the paradox that is fairness? They say everything happens for a reason, but I say that is a fool’s way out. They preach that fairness is simply just treatment and impartiality. They are wrong. How can this be fair? Why should I accept that this is fair because of the truth of others? They do not get to talk to me of fairness. They may attempt to sway our view, but we must stand fast. We are the ones to whom the irony of fairness has been exposed. Not them. We are the ones who are suffering. I am the one in pain. I am in pain. An unrelenting hurt that grips my soul and steals the breath. It is this pain we must not simply endure, but embrace it, and let it fuel our fury. They will never understand our displeasure. They will never know our wrath – the resentment that dominates us, directed towards the noble and virtuous fairness. Fury lives within my very being, and I am not opposed to its hold on me. I am reduced to only pain and rage – I will fight fire with fire. 

One tends to take the time to observe – reflect – and rationalise. They allow us to take time to process and to be alone. They believe that after time of contemplation we will be ‘fixed’, ready to just carry on with our lives. They are unaware of the truth. The damnable truth of the complexity of reflection. We find ourselves asking in desperation: why couldn’t this happen to someone else, what did I do to deserve this? We will get no answer. When drawing on all notable times we try to negotiate – to offer a pitiful exchange of sorts. As to what we are realistically attempting to negotiate, even we are wholly unsure. I offer terms that are inconsequential and meaningless in the grand scheme of things. I am partially aware of this, but I will try, nonetheless. I will be a better person. I will place more importance on love and generosity. I will not take anything for granted. Take me instead, just, please, don’t leave me.  

Tired. We are so tired. I am so tired. How are we supposed to carry on? To soldier on as they expect of us. It is as though we have been removed from reality, watching as life moves on and everyone on with it. They will never understand just how hard it is to open my eyes in the morning, to breathe through the pain of each inhale. Exhale. Inhale. They do not suspect. Paint a smile onto crimson lips. Happiness. Eyes glisten with fanciful yearning and a sorry desperation. Youthful optimism. Life exists now as a poor juxtaposition of self. Our bodies tremble with adrenaline, running on reserve as mundane tasks such as eating and sleeping well are beyond our reach; yet our souls are –oh so – worn and – oh so – tired. Still trapped in the vice of the pain. The pain. It’s all consuming, and its cause? The absence of you. How can one heal when the loss is too great? How can I heal, as they say, when healing means moving on? I cannot – will not – see a future without you in it. I miss you. I’m so tired of missing you. I am – oh so very – tired.  

The mundane. Everyone takes it for granted. Oblivious. Uncomprehending of just how hard the mundane can be. The art of waking up. An art? – we envy those who do not understand the gravity of finally being able to complete the mundane. Waking up is still a conscious effort when every time – every single time – is marked by the absence of you. But it is getting easier, it is. But the pain still holds us ransom; there is no escape from the pain. The numbness that remains is bone deep. It is chilling. It serves as a reminder of the separation between us and them. On the bad days, when I am – oh so – numb and cold, I find myself foolishly craving the warmth of your presence; to be held in the arms that love me. Yet on the ‘good’ days, the days where normality finally seems achievable to some extent, it all seems a little easier. Each time I smile it feels more real. The person in the mirror smiling back at me seems to look a little more like me. I am trying to ‘get better’ as they say. But I simply say I am learning to learn to live without you here.  

Acceptance, I find, is an ambiguous term. I can accept that you are no longer here with us, with me, but I am once more guilty, guilty of not always – truthfully – believing it. They can give their support and their condolences, but no one can truly help you reach the point of wistful enlightenment. The journey we must undertake cannot be pre-empted and it appears different for each of us, as individuals. Said journey is a tragic culmination of pain and relief that we all must achieve on our own terms. But the goal we are all reaching is – acceptance. I know you are gone. No longer here. No longer, here, with me. Perhaps you are in a better place now: I hope so, and that is the truth – my truth. It still feels surreal to realise that you will never walk beside me once more. That being said, in my own words, I am moving forward. I am getting better. I am healing. I strive each to make them proud. To make everyone proud. To make you proud. More than this, I strive to make myself proud. To prove to myself that I am more than my experiences, more than my loss of you. I am more than my grief. I am proud of myself. I am proud of myself because I was – I am – deserving of your love. 

Grief is a strange process. We are expected to conform to the seven stages of grief. Our lives are categorised by seven unlucky little words. Denial. Guilt. Anger. Bargaining. Depression. Reconstruction. Acceptance. When we are grieving, they, everyone, expects us to be sad – so very sad – and the truth we will be, we are. But we are more than this, more than seven simple words, more than our grief. I am more than my grief.