I crack open my bedroom window to blow the smoke from my joint outside. The only light comes from the sliver of the moon visible in the crack between my building and my neighbour’s. At first, all I see is darkness. But after a few minutes, my eyes adjust. Gradually the outside takes shape—I can just make out the white frames of my neighbour’s windows, the bricks that make up the building next door. At first, the darkness feels disorienting, uncertain. But the magic of my eyes calibrating grounds me; delivering a sense of assuredness. Then, a neighbor turns on a light, flooding the space with brightness. When the light turns off, the whole visual process starts again.
This is what grief feels like. In the early days, it’s so dark I can’t see two steps in front of me. Everything feels foreign and scary, like I’m feeling my way through a pitch black room. But over time I adjust, I can just make out the shapes of objects; functioning in the world starts to not feel so difficult anymore.
And…