The Promise Part II
Content warning: This personal essay is about grief after suicide loss.
Grace’s funeral was tender. I sat beside her and held her hand. It didn’t feel real. The body lying beside me wouldn’t feel like her until she took a breath.
One by one, her closest friends went in to say goodbye. We all struggled.
She was in a closed wicker basket with her bike and jungle boots at her feet. The chapel seats were full of punks in leather-clad and studded jackets, just as Grace’s mum had invited them to be.
The invitation read, “Come in what you wear, be as you are, be comfortable.” Her mum had always accepted Grace as she was—a beautiful, tenacious, and complex rarity in a challenging, paradoxical world.
I stood in the doorway in a burnt orange velvet dress that fell to the floor, waiting for the last to arrive from their flights. They ran in from the rain, saw my blurry outline with arms outstretched and ran into what felt like Grace’s arms.
It’s hard to explain, but I felt Grace in me. Seeing and talking to her the other night pulled her into me and gave voice to things she needed to say, and I spoke for her so they could forgive themselves. We all needed to forgive ourselves.
I thought I had forgiven myself, but as time went on, I died more and more inside. Guilt consumed me. I had lost someone who had meant everything to me, and I blamed myself. We had been best friends for over ten years, and I had let her down in her time of need.
A few months back, we planned to go overseas together. Now, I would go alone and carry her with me. Visiting her grave, I sang to her and carved waves into the freshly packed ground to represent the sea. I climbed on top and held onto the mound of earth that covered her. My mourning journey had only just begun.
For a long time, it hurt to be around people. I was mourning harder than I could ever have imagined or recognised. I stopped eating and lost over 15kgs. Birthdays hurt the most.
I thought I was cursed. I was afraid to touch anything for fear it would die. I tried to keep myself away from everyone. Some may have taken it personally, but it wasn’t them. It was me. I was so afraid and broken. I had lost understanding of what living meant.
I saw Grace in my dreams constantly. She was always hiding in a bed in some surreal setting, like a field or a parking lot. Sometimes, I was in there with her, talking and looking at her face as if it were a soft-focused memory. Other times, she was out of sight, but I could feel and hear her there.
I went overseas and lived there for about a month. I saw castles in the day and dancers at sunset. One day, while out kayaking, the ocean was so still and clear I could see the bottom of the sea. I paddled to a cave where there was a shrine of flowers.
But I had nothing to give. I was burnt out. None of this felt right. None of it was brutal enough to match how I burned inside. I needed something else. I missed the healing wild shores of my country and the rugged nature of our lands.
I lay in bed in a hot marble-floored apartment, listening to nearby morning church bells. I didn’t want to get up and face it all. As the church bells stopped ringing, I thought, “Grace’s soul isn’t here. She’s at home in New Zealand”.
I quit my job that day and moved back to New Zealand, to the countryside, where the dreams of Grace persisted. She developed more form, more voice and more attitude. Soon, she was alive, talking, laughing, and taking me to markets, bars, and gigs. I would feel that familiar thrill of being with her only to realise partway through that she had died in real life.
I would get this feeling as I realised none of it was real. I would stop and look around, wondering why no one else had noticed or why no one else was crying. Tears ran down my face as I choked on my words, “No! No! Grace, you’re dead! You’re not alive anymore.”
I would panic and raise my voice with desperation, “This isn’t real; this is a dream!”
Then I’d shake myself awake, face saturated, reaching for her.
I tried to figure out why this kept happening. I tried to figure out how to make it stop hurting so much.
After some time, I dreamt of her again. We were walking through a field of flowers, and I stopped, realising again that this was a dream. That Grace wasn’t alive anymore, and this wasn’t real. Yet, here she was, unmistakable as day, smiling at me, talking to me, giving me the feeling that everything would be okay.
I let myself realise that it was real. It was Grace.
In dreams, there was no separation.
We were just here together.
She came to ease my pain.
I thought, “Just let it be. Let it happen. Let her love you”.
I relaxed into the dream and felt the most rested I had in years when I woke.
Maybe it was my conscience finally accepting the only catharsis I could muster. Perhaps it was Grace’s spirit who came to heal me herself. Either way, it gave me peace. So, thank you, Grace.
That peace has lasted, although the hurt will never really go away.
It will only get smaller and easier to manage.
I still miss you a lot.