Some days I struggle. Most days I can put Ava into a safe place in my heart and hold her there while I continue living a life with purpose and full of happiness, but some days I can’t. Some days I just hurt too much to come out of the shadows, and when I wake up in the morning I wish I could go back to sleep until the pain was over. Some days I just really struggle. And though those days are becoming fewer and farther between they still hurt so badly that they erase all memory of the good days. Wednesday was a bad day.

Wednesday morning I sat on a bus on my way to work surrounded by people happily smiling and laughing, and I felt so painfully alone that it crushed me. I stared intently out the window silently wiping away tears, trying to mask my sniffles from the stranger sitting next to me, whom I am certain wasn’t fooled. I could feel his uncomfortable glances as my sniffling increased in frequency and volume. I was uncomfortable too, but I couldn’t stop. I listened to the other happy commuters and remembered a time when I used to be like that. I used to laugh a lot. I probably laughed just like that the other day, but it wasn’t the same because there’s a part deep down inside of me that will never laugh again. A part of me is so broken and shattered that even my best attempt at joy always has a hint of insincerity. Even though you may not know my grief or see my pain, it is always with me, and grief is the loneliest companion I have ever known. I cannot share my grief with you and I cannot unburden myself from the pain, so most days, I choose to hide it with a smile. Most days it works. But some days, I struggle. Some days I can’t hide it. Some days no matter what I do the grief consumes my heart and my mind until I am crying on a bus at 7:30 in the morning next to a complete stranger. I cannot share my burden because the world has no room for my grief. We are all too busy, and too uncomfortable and frankly, it’s been long enough. It has been over a year and people think its about time I get over it and move on. The world has started to forget Ava and they’re expecting me to move on too.

But I am shattered inside. Like a broken glass, I cannot be put back together again, at least not the way I used to be, so I fake it. I smile, I laugh, I hide my grief. I sit on a bus next to a stranger and nervously tap my feet counting the seconds until my stop, like an addict anxious to get a fix. When the doors open I burst onto the street and try to catch my breath. I tell myself to hold it together for just a few more minutes until I can get out of this crowd as I walk quickly through the swarms of happy people, my sniffles getting louder by the second. I tell myself I can’t go on like this, I glance over the railing of the bridge at the cars speeding by on the interstate below, probably full of more happy people that I can’t stand to be around. I have to get out of here. I focus on the sidewalk and pass the remainder of the crowd until I am finally alone. Unable to hold on any longer, I slow my pace, quickly look around, and when the coast is clear I come to a halt, bend down, and cry. The short story of Ava’s life plays in my head and I cry. I remember the person I used to be and I cry even harder. I don’t know who I am anymore. I’m not sure I like this new person, she’s mean and angry. I miss the old me. I want Ava back. I want my marriage back. I want my life back. I want ME back. It all hurts too much. I let the pain rip me apart and I cry in a dark, empty sidestreet, hiding my grief away from the world as best as I can because my grief is not an acceptable public emotion. My grief makes people uncomfortable. My grief shouldn’t be this raw anymore.

I continue walking another 10 blocks to work and while I do I let the tears flow out until I am numb. I approach the door as I wipe my eyes and straighten my clothes. I take a deep breath, stand a little taller, and enter the building greeting my coworkers with a smile. I’m not sure they’re fooled but if I don’t mention my red, puffy eyes, neither will they. No one will want to confront my grief in public. Until I slip up and somebody notices. She asks me if I am OK and I tell her I need a minute, so she politely closes the door to my office and lets me get one last fix in before the work day starts. I take the opportunity to have another quick cry before I’m on the clock and have to start caring for others, but I have to do it in private. I cannot let her see me cry. I do not ever let anyone see me cry. I prefer to do it alone. Most days I am fine and my smile is not a lie, but some days…some days I am a grief junkie, hiding my habit behind closed doors and in empty side streets because some days I struggle.