My Grief speaks

Note:  This is based on an exercise from Megan Devine's "How to Carry What Can't be Fixed." The instruction was to characterize and describe my grief. 

I am grief and I am lonely. You have shut me out and I will be felt. I will be heard. You  know me. I am the feeling of damp anxiety,  like water pouring into an already obstructed drain. I am the moist darkness that rots your pipes, destroys your foundation if you continue to ignore me. You may feel safe right now, but I will make sure that you know that the floor may collapse beneath you. It may only be a squeak beneath your foot, but does it foretell collapse?

I am the feeling of despair, the moisture beneath your knee when you gave CPR, the hopelessness soaking into your clothing and seeping into the crevices  and dark corners all around and taking hold. You think I've gone, and then one day the noise below your step reminds you that you are vulnerable.

Ignore my voice and  pests and poisons flourish in your world. Untended, I am as rotten fruit, the pool of barely identified liquid sticking, stinking to the bottom of the drawer. Deny me, forsake me and  the softened wood of your foundations and fortifications are chewed up and decay. 

The perfect peach must be examined and re-examined again to make sure it isn't spoiled or wriggling. The zucchini and cauliflower are uneaten, finally you give up on "real" fruit and buy frozen, antiseptic, unseen, giving you a sense of autonomy and safety.

I want for you to see me. I want you to acknowledge me, so we may learn to live together one day.

I am meeting with a counselor on Monday to work on a plan and tools to help to reduce the intense anxiety that I have been experiencing these last several weeks.