Compounding Forces

Wednesday’s Worry

“It’s better to keep grief inside,” says the author of one of my favorite novels. “Grief inside works like bees or aunts, building curious and perfect structures, complicating you. Grief outside means you want something from someone, and chances are good you won’t get it” (Hamann, 2003, pg444). Grief … deep sorrow, distress, agony, all weighted kinds of words that ultimately mean the same thing – one is tormented by something that causes pain or suffering. I’ve long maintained that Hamman is totally right. When I first found her words in Anthropology of an American Girl, I must’ve stared at them for a good two minutes before moving on to the next passage.

Shortly after my mother’s death in 2012, I discovered Hamann’s novel. It put on the page all sorts of emotions I was experiencing and refusing to acknowledge. As my marriage was crumbling around me, and I was pining for home something serious, I found myself tucking away – deep into worlds written out by real writers with more strength and conviction than I could ever hope to find. At least, that’s what I thought at the time. Now I realize that Hamman’s words are wrong. Really wrong.

Keeping grief inside does nothing to advance one’s personal narrative. Sure, it offers complexities and scaffolding for other emotions, but it also keeps one closed, caged, and ultimately alone. I have long maintained that positive thinking leads to positive living. Manifest destiny, the power of persuasion, seeing that which I want to achieve – all of tenants have helped propel me forward, have helped keep me moving.  And because of this, I don’t let my grief come to the surface. I allow it to simmer like a pot of soup, low and slow, until it gets to be so hot that I just can’t stand to swallow it any longer. I worry that my approach to living full and round is ultimately going to fuck me in the end.

Hamman is wrong with this – it’s not better to keep grief inside.