One of the isolating sensations in grief is the distortion of time. I vividly remember, after experiencing my first gut-wrenching loss after the death of a family member, that I couldn’t get over how everyone else was going about their days as usual. I was in college at the time, and when I was back on campus after the funeral, the reality that life was moving forward despite my loss was almost unbearable. I stood frozen in a campus office where I worked, watching students and professors go about mundane daily activities. I was screaming on the inside, “Everyone, just stop! Don’t you know I lost someone I loved?” I couldn’t understand why they couldn’t see that my life was forever altered. When I decided to tackle this concept, I immediately envisioned another moment I endured later in life with loss. I distinctly recall struggling to go buy groceries, very aware of how alone I felt. Everyone around me was oblivious to my internal experience, which made it seem like a time-lapse photo, with me in an alternate dimension of time. It’s true that, ultimately, we have to carry on with daily tasks. Yet, that profound ache accompanies us to the store, to work, as we fix dinner while simultaneously distorting our experience of life around us.
I depicted this as the world moving by at lightning-fast speeds while you remain stuck, trying to muster the strength to do the most ordinary things. The subject stands, inert and swallowed by the loss, unable to remember what to do next.
The minutes after part of our hearts die turn to hours, days, months, and years. Birthdays, graduations, and marriages keep cycling through despite our reticence. The distortion always eventually leaves, and yet it’s humbling to realize that while it’s back to normal for me, I very well might be passing someone in their own grief distortion.
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