The Backup Plan

I grieved before I met grief.

As someone who has struggled with a sense of powerlessness in the face of the uncontrollable circumstances I encountered in my childhood, I had become accustomed to the idea of facing the inevitable before it happens.

As a child, I had developed a series of what I refer to as "backup plans" for moments when I would need them.

What would happen if I lost everything tomorrow? Well, I would do _____.

What would happen if I lost the person closest to me? Well, I would grieve like _____.

Given the lack of control I had in my childhood, I believed that by managing my own emotional reactions, I could navigate those situations more effectively. By leaning on my “backup plans” I was able to have full control over how I carried myself, how I presented myself, and how I prepared to face the inevitable.

This was my way of control over my emotions, preemptively preparing myself for one of the most challenging human emotions one can experience.

My personal experience with grief allowed me to go through the process of grieving in advance, long before grief itself found its way to me.

Leaning on my “backup plan”, I decided to go to my high school’s winter formal dance the night I met grief. I walked out of the hospital wearing an itchy dress that was equal parts uncomfortable as it was unflattering. I knew that the moment the dance was over, I would walk back into the hospital and go back to the life I lived behind closed doors.

I hadn’t met grief yet, and didn’t anticipate to meet death for a few more months.

I had time.

Time to pretend. Time to be okay.

Time to enjoy the last few months of the person I was no longer going to be, once grief shook my hand.

The dress I wore was too scratchy. The bass from the music was hurting my ears. The dance floor was tacky and made my heels stick. The pungent smell of alcohol was the strongest perfume in the air.

I was counting down the seconds until the dance would be over, and I could return to my impending grief.

Amongst the sweaty bodies engulfing me with their awkward dance moves, and the soft smiles from my classmates I had known since I was a little girl, a large clock to my right hit 8:00pm, and my body went into a trance.

I experienced tunnel vision, and had only one mission in that moment: To leave.

I turned towards the exit to grab my coat that my teachers insisted stayed in an empty classroom with the rest of the student’s coats. I always had my phone on me in case I would receive the phone call that the inevitable had happened. My too-scratchy dress didn’t have pockets, and I decided to leave my phone with my coat.

I walked away from the bass of the music that hurt my ears. I walked away from the dance floor that was tacky and made my heels stick. I walked away from the pungent smell of alcohol that made me feel nauseous with familiarity.

I found my coat and pulled out my phone to call a cab, and when my phone turned on, I had 27 text messages and 46 missed calls.

It was 8:04pm, I lost the person I was closest to, at 7:59pm.

I told myself that when I lost the person closest to me, I would grieve like ____.

And when grief came and extended its cold hand out to me, I did not grieve like ____.

I did the exact opposite of how my “backup plan” predicted I would grieve.

I was prepared for being stuck in endless sorrow, where I would feel a heightened sense of every human emotion one can feel. Love, anger, sorrow.

Yet, I wasn’t stuck in an endless sorrow, and my emotions weren’t heightened.

I didn’t feel — at all.

I had spent months before I anticipated the loss of the person closest to me, preparing for the day when their soul would be bound to the stars. Yet, when that day arrived, I had conditioned myself for so long to fit the mold outlined by my "backup plan" that I completely forgot how to feel.

It was as if a switch had been flipped, and every human emotion I had spent eighteen years feeling, no longer functioned.

I sat on the cold tile of the empty classroom, and looked at the snow falling outside the windows. I didn’t cry. I didn’t scream. I didn’t do any of what my “backup plan” had planned for me to do.

I just sat there.

A boy I used to have an innocent crush on when I was eight years old, came into the room to grab his coat and saw me sitting on the floor, looking at the snow falling. When he called my name, the only response I had for him was that I had met grief.

He sat beside me, and asked if I was okay.

And weirdly enough, I said yes. I was okay.

I wasn’t sad. I wasn’t angry. I wasn’t happy.

I was just, okay.

I spent the next eight months of my life, being just okay.

I returned to school the next day. I completed my assignments for school on time. I slept through the night. I was operating as if I had never encountered grief, although in a state of emotional numbness.

I wasn’t the same, and everyone who had known me before I met grief, could see that.

On the ninth month after I met grief, was when I grieved.

I was stuck in my sorrow. I was angry. I was bitter. I was stuck in my healing.

I had felt every human emotion associated with grief, the emotions I should’ve felt when I sat on the cold tile of that empty classroom at 8:04pm, on the ninth month.

Everything that I was feeling, was not what my “backup plan” anticipated I would feel.

I believe that grief comes in waves. It can swallow you when you hear a song being played in the grocery store. It can swallow you when you walk down the street and see a familiar park. It can swallow you when you see an old photo in your camera roll.

It can swallow you when you least expect it, despite being prepared.

It just swallows you.

Many often believe that grieving comes the minute you shake hands with grief, however, I see it as a lifelong process. You can grieve before you ever meet grief. You can grieve months after meeting grief. You can grieve years after meeting grief.

Grief remains a constant companion - it is with you, it is in you, it is you.

And there is nothing wrong with tapping into its feelings, hours, days, months, and years after you meet it. It doesn’t mean you’re broken or incapable of feeling the full effects of grief.

Whether you seek comfort in relying on your "backup plans" or opt to discard any semblance of a plan and simply embrace your emotions, your grief is uniquely yours.

Cry with it.

Hold it.

Love it.

Hate it.

Ignore it.

Feel it.

Just, feel it.

When you are ready to let it in.

All my love, always,

Julia Reesor