Why I wrote this book

I turned to alcohol after my dad died, while trying to soothe my pain and loneliness. I stayed in bed too many days to count, feeling intense physical and emotional pain while replaying those last two weeks of his life; trying to hold on to every memory I could. Even the awful ones. I somehow kept living in a numb, dream-like state and, when the slightest bit of emotion pushed its way through I casually excused myself to the washroom, downed a glass of wine to calm my nerves, cried my eyes out, wiped my tears, and painted on that forced smile I had mastered so discretely. I looked at myself in the mirror and questioned how much longer this could go on for... turned out to be for many months.

I started seeing a therapist seven months into my grief. The last time I met with her, she said, “The only way you can heal is by being honest with all that you are feeling.” You are not being honest with me or yourself. You need an outlet, a way to release all of this pain." At the time, I was deep into complicated grief and depression. Her voice sounded muffled, like she was trying to speak with a scarf covering her mouth. Imagine spending an hour surrounded by glass that was hard to see through and hard to hear through, and you try to go about life, as usual, things would get pretty confusing. Grief often feels like this. Focusing on anything becomes difficult. You hold your head in your hands all the time. Your vision blurs, and you have a hard time understanding or retaining what anyone is saying.

Her words echoed in my mind repeatedly; “the only way you can heal is by being honest with all that you are feeling.” 

“I’ve only ever been able to express myself through my writing.” Writing has always been closely linked to my personal experiences, regardless of what I’m writing. It’s a way to escape the restrictions of my own life (such as loss, heartbreak, and childhood trauma). It also allows me to feel free again even if only for brief moments. 

I tried to write, but my brain was a scrambled mess. Every time I picked up the pen, my hand shook. I would walk into my studio, sit down at my desk, crack open my notebook and just stare off into space. On the rare days where I scribbled something down, the words were unrecognizable, distorted.

This wasn’t my first loss. In fact, it was the third loss in twelve months, but my dad’s death hit me the hardest. This book was born out of a desperate need for me to pull myself from the rubble after having hit rock bottom. I wanted to know what it felt like to go one whole day without feeling sadness, guilt, anger, and regret. (Okay... one day is a stretch, at least one hour would have been an improvement). In time, I rose up and learned how to pull myself out of the darkness, but it was anything but easy and required a lot of patience and work. 

Preface

What I learned about grief is that there is no destination. Steps and guides are fine but, grief doesn’t follow any structure. It’s about the healing that unfolds through your journey. 

Metamorphosis is a journey, but like grief, it isn’t linear. It’s all over the place — a rollercoaster of thoughts, feelings and emotions told in haiku.

The sudden, unexpected, traumatic death of a loved one is something like having a limb torn off. 

Shocking. As if the air has been sucked from your lungs and you can’t manage another breath.

Pain makes an appearance, but it’s so raw and intense that it cannot be borne in full yet. Numbness, shock and disbelief choreograph a protective pattern that only allows pain to play a cameo role in the immediate aftermath of a near mortal blow.

The death leaves a gaping wound with grief flowing out, covering you and splashing onto all those around you. 

Some back away in fear, or distaste, as your grief spurts out, just as your blood would from a physical wound.

It feels deadly. You’re not sure you will survive. At times you hope you won’t. You wish you would disappear from life, like your loved one has, and that you would reappear wherever they are now. It doesn’t work like that. This deep, intense, raw pain feels fatal, but it’s not.

You keep breathing. One ragged, sobbing breath after another. You try to find some comfort, wrapping yourself in a blanket or some piece of clothing that smells like them. 

You sip a glass of wine. Or perhaps something stronger, although that doesn’t really help. It just blurs the pain a little, until the substance wears off and you’re left with heartbreak and a hangover.

You stare, distracted, not seeing what’s in front of you. Instead, your mind is running through a turbulent gauntlet of regrets, shattered dreams and the sharp edges of memories that tear at your broken heart.

You try to reach out, to talk to others about how you feel, but most don’t understand. 

“It’s time to move on.” “He wouldn’t want you to be so miserable.” 

So, you struggle, feeling alone. Battered by waves of grief washing powerfully over you, and you try to adjust to life without your loved one. 

Breathe. Just keep breathing. When the pain is so intense, there is nothing you can do. Just breathe until you are ready for the next thing.

The wound will heal, though the scars remain. You will never be the same as you were before. Your broken heart will ache when memories blow over you just as a physical wound aches on a damp, cool day. In time, and with compassionate attention to the healing process, your grief will shift and you will learn how to carry it. Be gentle with yourself. Don’t rush — you can’t hurry grief. Move through this process in your own way. In your own time, and know there is no wrong way to grieve. 

Your grief is a reflection of your love.

Losing you was the start

of the shedding of my skin

nothing is the same

A howling thunder

fall of the mighty redwood 

— my father’s death.

Sometimes I crawl down

into my skin, losing touch

I feel your presence.

Deep and dark as night

she stumbles reaching for him

stillness slithers in.

Her eyes fill with tears

as she stares scanning his face

wondering how long.