Feeling words

“Emotions, in my experience, aren't covered by single words. I don't believe in "sadness," "joy," or "regret." Maybe the best proof that the language is patriarchal is that it oversimplifies feeling. I'd like to have at my disposal complicated hybrid emotions, Germanic train-car constructions like, say, "the happiness that attends disaster." Or: "the disappointment of sleeping with one's fantasy." I'd like to show how "intimations of mortality brought on by aging family members" connects with "the hatred of mirrors that begins in middle age." I'd like to have a word for "the sadness inspired by failing restaurants" as well as for "the excitement of getting a room with a minibar." I've never had the right words to describe my life, and now that I've entered my story, I need them more than ever. ”
― Jeffrey Eugenides, Middlesex

I love reading quotes that remind me I am not the only one who thinks such things. How does one describe the deep intensity of emotion and experience in tiny little words that can never touch the truth of what is felt? Sadness doesn’t speak of the deeply entrenched scars of loss. Joy doesn’t articulate that spinning elation that makes you so light headed, you think you may explode with all the warmth inside your heart. 

I have been asked, and pushed, to describe how I feel—even though I am not quite sure how I am supposed to articulate what is happening inside me. Words seem so small and inadequate.  A feeling word is simply not enough. I need those “Germanic train-car constructions” to convey what this is like. 

I am lonely like an empty belly, starving, craving, longing for the unquenchable, knowing it will never come in this lifetime. I am making peace with hunger, accepting that I will always ache for something I can no longer have. My heart, so expanded by love, is left with a hole, the size of Chris, that no one can ever fill. Surrounded by the love of others, that longing will remain, even as I appreciate the companionship I still have. 

I am sad with a weight that feels like a boulder smashing into my stomach. It hits so hard, at times, I lose my breath to such a degree that I am not always certain I will find it again. I am physically heavy with despair, knowing our family, his dearest friends, long for him like I do. At times it feels unbearable. 

I feel a sense of injustice and bitterness, like a poorly balanced beer—all bite and no sweetness. It the injustice of finding that perfect treasure, only to lose it to the sea, somewhere so deep no one can touch it.  I feel robbed of the goodness we were building, of the special bond we shared as not only husband and wife, but as best friends. I feel robbed of our future and all the possibilities we held between us. 

I feel like less without the person who brought out the best in me, unsure if I am able to draw all those pieces out on my own. I was more because of my love for Chris, for everything he brought to my life. Without him, I am deflated—a balloon that has contracted back to a wrinkly, withered version of its former self. 

At times, I am angry with an irrational rage that seethes like lava underneath a volcano. There is no one to blame. I can tell the universe, God, that this is not okay, but that does not change what happened. There are no apologies to be had, no way to make this right. While I feel abandoned, this wasn’t Chris’ choice. It seems unfair to fight someone who cannot argue back.

I feel disjointed like a door swinging off its hinges. Between all of these difficult emotions lies the intense love and gratitude that I have for Chris. For who he was, for everything he meant to me. That love is what makes the loss so difficult. One feeling cannot exist without the other, though they seem so far apart. Love expands my heart, loss contracts it. Grief is like a heartbeat- arrhythmic but steady.

Every day is different. Some days I stay with one feeling, other days, I experience a broad range. I don’t often express every feeling out loud because experiencing the emotion is enough work—I don’t need everyone to understand what this is like. I already hate that four other people are burdened with similar journeys. I would rather keep quiet than experience pity or constantly explain my grief. For me, articulating what I feel doesn't validate my experience. Its part of who I am. And sometimes I simply don't find it necessary to explain myself. I want to just be.