Grief thinks it’s so funny. I have been okay for months; I didn’t have one single break down, and then suddenly, at midnight on a Thursday, I can’t close my eyes without the night my mom died replying in my head on a loop. I can’t stop thinking about her, about how I’m never going to see her again, about how I’ll never see her smile or hear her laugh. My mom is gone and I thought I came to terms with that. I thought I was finally okay. I was moving on with my life and doing my own thing. Grief thinks it’s so funny, calling on me at random, playing with my head when I’m most vulnerable. But grief is not funny. Grief hurts. Grief will follow you forever and there’s no way around the crippling pain. Grief is smart; it waits. It waits until you’re okay, until you’re just fine. It waits until you think you’ve figured everything out and then it attacks. Grief reaches it’s hand into your chest and rips out your heart when you expect it the least. And it laughs. Grief thinks it’s so funny.
