I make every effort to speak about the grieving process as openly and honestly as possible. It has influenced some really undesirable reactions on my part as of late. I get hopelessly insecure and self-righteous (simultaneously), and at times I have projected many of these things onto the people around me. Basically, because of what I’ve been going through—what I continue to try to work through—I’m not a super fun person to be around a lot of the time, and it feels impossible to explain these reactions to any person who has heard me say the word “grieving” more than ten times.

Day to day, it feels like I’m met with a comical number of blank stares and earnest nodding, “Yes. I don’t understand but I will nod my head until you stop talking about grief. Oh god, is she finished talking about that whole dead dad thing yet?” It feels like those around me are wondering when I’ll snap out of it, without realizing that I’d love to, really, if I could. I didn’t expect to feel rushed to get over something like this.

The reactions of people around me, this lack of understanding and the length of time my grief has lasted has revealed to me a second grieving process, tucked away inside the overarching umbrella of initial loss—the realization that your support system is moving on with their lives. It’s so so difficult not to feel sadness and (sometimes) resentment when you begin to understand that your tragedy is no longer the central focus for anyone else. There exists a common misconception that the pinnacle of your grief is the moment of a loved one’s loss, even though it is often (especially in my case) much more intense as the days and months pass. Explanations of my grieving process have been met as of late with advice such as, “You have to learn to find ways to be happy,” as if the desire to do so has not been the thing that keeps me from staying in bed all day, every day. There are markedly fewer unbiased and patient people around to share the hard days with now.

There is an insufferable restlessness inside of me—an inability to escape from feeling sad. I am able to find positive things to do with my time, but the events are all happening from within the fog of a desperate need to not feel hopeless. I guess I’m in the process now of trying to be present with loss on my own. It isn’t fun.

These days I’m spending a lot of time going through my old stuff, finding bits and pieces of paper with my Dad’s writing on them and saving them in a little box. I get most sad late at night, when there isn’t really anyone around to talk to anyway. I’ve been trying to sit with it, accept it, and not distract myself from it. This is a huge challenge, because it means stopping myself from habits I’ve created to drown out the discomfort. No more sleeping pills, or picking fights, or distracting myself by committing to tons of projects so I don’t have to be alone. I am striving for a balance between giving my grief the time and attention it requires and living a happy life. The world keeps going on.