The Well of Grief
The heart can be a stubborn thing. It’s the heart that keeps us tethered to the remnants of memory, especially the painful ones. The ones that keep us coming back to this Well of Grief, thirsty yet ever wanting to arrive there and find that the well has finally, after all this time, run dry.
That well never runs dry. It depletes, the bitter liquid dipping just below the line of sight, just out of reach of the light, but give it some time and you’ll soon come back to find it brimming over the edge once more.
There is a reason why we say that trauma scars us. Time helps with grief, but it remains clear that there is no getting over certain things. Much like old physical injuries that leave behind scars, old traumatic events leave behind scars as well.
It’s been fifteen years to the day that I lost my best friend to suicide, and there are times when I feel that flush of cold I felt on the day I was standing, listening to my Dad tell me the news. I think just telling me, his son, that his best friend, a guy that was essentially another son to him, had killed himself broke something in him that day, as it did so many.
All I know is that there are times when I am fine, thinking I am finally completely over what happened and then the water in that infernal well sloshes and I am reminded of that bitter cold. The body shivers in response, not understanding that this cold is coming from some place deep within—coming from an old and nasty scar. But I don’t think it was the news that caused that wound that led to that nasty scar. It came from a place of deep knowing, the searing rip of the barrier between my conscious and subconscious. The cold blade of knowing all too well when I had awoken the night before in a panic, and spending the entire day trying to push the thought away. It’s like denying the worst of something that could happen and finding out that that worst thing is true.
I woke up the previous night, confused and heart pounding in my throat, feeling as though the world had ended. It took me a moment, waking up on the couch because I was waiting for him to come home because I had this fucking feeling that shit wasn’t ok. I just knew it. From there, I don’t know how else to explain it. I woke up and fought with myself for a moment before sending him a text, telling him that I didn’t want to sound like a concerned parent, but is everything alright? He wasn’t home when he was supposed to be, and I soon fell back asleep and woke up the next morning without any sign of him. I don’t know if he got the message. Back then there wasn’t the little “read” sign over the texts that had been opened, so I’ll never know if he saw it right before the end.
Part of me feels that my waking panic tells me all I need to know. I believe that part of myself still blames me for being too late in sending that message, as stupid as that sounds. Sleeping on the job, as they say. I knew something wasn’t right when I tried to stay up, sitting on the couch watching tv, that innate knowing needling at me. Telling me something was wrong.
The next day I felt that cold wound spreading inside as I left for work not seeing his truck in its usual spot. Never again would I see it.
The water in this Well of Grief is a noxious mixture, I’ve found. The bitterness of knowing the worst and bearing the brunt of it, but also the iron metal taste of… I don’t know what to call it. Repeated trauma? It fell to me to inform all the close friends of what had happened and I knew that if it were me, I’d want to know immediately. There’s not really a fucking phone tree for this kind of shit so I went ahead, back to back, and called everyone. Listening to them answering the phone, happy I called, then unleashing this pain. Back to back and I could hear it on the other end and it was like taking a lash to my own heart. Over and over again, and I think this dealing out of emotional pain was what hurt me the most. I didn’t share it because I didn’t want anyone else to have to do it. This pain was punishment for my knowing. And it is something I have come to terms with. Came with the duty, but it is something I have found it so hard to forgive, and the root of the rage I felt at him afterward. I know better now, but I was young and overwhelmed at the time.
I had always been angry. Quiet and seething in my rage, mostly because of my inability to express all the feelings I was feeling. Not only my own, but everyone else’s around me. I took my pain and anger out on what remained of him inside and it did a lot of harm, but there was nowhere else for me to take it when the time came. I was too young, didn’t know what I know now. The only thing I can say is that for as ignorant as I was, I handled it pretty well, all things considered.
Coming to the end of this, though, I wonder how many more words I’ll have for this particular chapter of my life? Another ten, twenty, thirty years down the road will I still be processing this wound I was dealt when I had just turned 21? My goal is to not be hobbling over to this Well of Grief when I am an old man.
This is why I write like I do, waking up during the witching hour to draw from that darkness and get down what I can on the page, hopscotching the fucking workday afterward and doing the things I don’t want to do because the world goes ever onward, ignorant and apathetic to those that try and actually process how they feel instead of damming it up behind walls that eventually corrode and unleash physical and mental hell in their later years. “Toughen up!” a lot of them say. Words of those too fearful to look behind the curtain hiding their own pain, or simply just not equipped to handle what lies there. I don’t blame anyone, especially the latter. It’s all conditioning. It’s all sad.
I write for those like me, those who have lost and still remain afterward, bearing the weight of the dead and keep fighting. I also write to pass on part of the burden to those who ridicule, wishing for them to feel even the slightest hint of what it’s like to be seized with the crippling anxiety that comes with trying to meet new people after this shit and fighting with maintaining relationships with people old and new while there’s a voice in the back of your mind that tells you, “they’re going to die eventually. They all are going to and it’s going to hurt just like Chris did, and you’ll be the one to tell everyone afterward. You’ll have to tell everyone about it and feel that cold lash—”
I write for those like me, wanting to some day give strength to those out there who feel like I do. There is strength in simply knowing we are not alone. It’s that knowing that has kept me going. I want people to know not to hold that pain behind a wall. Feel what you need to feel, even in the private spaces.
I consider myself extremely fortunate. It has taken time for me to see this truth. I attribute what stability I have to the friends and family that have stuck with me, even at my worst, as well as the methods of creation I’ve taken up. Always have a safe outlet for creation. I’m not sure if this Well of Grief will remain with me forever, but at least I know how to tend it. To care for it like an old injury instead of walling it up and waiting for it to stagnate, fester, and seep poison that bleeds into my life. I use the bitter yet potent water to grow a garden that will add value and enjoyment to life and everyone associated with it. It is how we cope, I guess. Take something horrible and use it to create something worth while. Alchemy in its purest form. Wisdom gathered from the processing of pain and trauma.
Facing a lot of this stuff can be scary. Fear is a great motivator. It can cause someone to run away, to cover the well with stone so thick that no one can see it, causing us to bask in the false sense of security until it seeps through and the festering ooze within poisons everything. Others get drunk off the pain, constantly dwelling and drawing upon it until there is nothing left but a desolate emptiness. The other option is to face it, pull the veil away and take what is seen there and use it. This is the hardest because it comes with the understanding that it’ll possibly never end.
I don’t know. I’m not a mental health professional, so take what I put here with a grain of salt. Just know that it has worked for me.
So, if the calling finds you, tend that garden, tend and grow something that’ll help not only those around you, but yourself as well.
Because suicide is mentioned, I want to list some resources for help. There is always help.
24/7 Crisis Hotline: 988 Suicide & Crisis Lifeline
988lifeline.org
Crisis Text Line
Text TALK to 741-741 to text with a trained crisis counselor from the Crisis Text Line for free, 24/7
Veterans Crisis Line
Send a text to 838255
SAMHSA Treatment Referral Hotline (Substance Abuse)
1-800-662-HELP (4357)
RAINN National Sexual Assault Hotline
1-800-656-HOPE (4673)