I never know anymore whether I should attribute struggles to the grief, or whether they’re normal struggles I would have faced in the alternate universe where my sister was still alive. All I know is I am hurting—a lot—and I feel like it’s starting to suffocate me again. The melancholy filter over everything is back, but I feel guiltier about it now. Like I’m not supposed to be this way again, and so unlike last year when I thought I could freely tell people, I am now trying to hide it away, pretend I’m okay to everyone.
Except I’m not okay. I’ve come home for lunch every day the last week to lay in my bed and sob. I’ve let my inner monologue spiral into a twisted, ugly mantra of how worthless I am, how no one should have to stoop so low as to even hear about my problems because why would it matter to them? About how alone I am and always will be.
Is this the grief? Or am I also have some kind of early midlife crisis now? Or am I just depressed (maybe even the properly diagnosable clinical kind)? Or—and my inner voice favors this one—am I just being weak and melodramatic and causing my own problems?
And the thing that keeps stabbing me in the chest every time is a single, echoing thought: I wish I could talk to my sister about this.
Unmoored Sister 