They claim to understand but do they really? Do they know how difficult it is for me to sleep at night because the pain is so real, it defeats sleep before it comes?
Sitting at my table, pen in hand, I’m lost in deep thought. I want to write but the words aren’t making any sense in my head. I’m in a reverie. How do I begin? How do I describe the piercing pain my heart? How many will understand how I feel? I feel like I have fallen hard from an incredible height.
Hopelessness doesn’t even begin to describe how I feel. People say grief makes you stronger; they say you should grieve but after a while, learn to channel your grief, or at least, get over your grief with whatever makes you tick. What they don’t say, however, is how hard it is to let go; how difficult it is to come to terms with the situation.
They claim to understand but do they really? Do they know how difficult it is for me to sleep at night because the pain is so real, it defeats sleep before it comes? Do they understand how hard it is to look beside me and see that the person that was once a pillar of support in a falling building, a window of escape in a raging storm, a source of warmth in the cold, dark night, isn’t there anymore? And that that person will not be there again forever? How do I explain to them that, because of a split second decision or an occurrence that I had absolutely no control over, I now have to cope with extreme, unimaginable pain? Who do I talk to in this dark time that seems to have now taken over my complete existence? How do I describe the feeling of nothingness, the dark abyss of hopelessness, and inferiority that has become my home? Yes, they have come and they have consoled me.
They have said to me that God knows why this has happened at a time like this, some have even said that this is my cross and I have to be strong and bear it without flinching but do they really know how it feels? Have they been in my shoes? Do they view the world from the same angle that I do? Who are they to try and console me? I simply listen absent mindedly and inwardly shake my head. They have no idea how it feels, I think.
Sometimes, in my dark place, I ask questions that no one will ever be able to answer: where was God when this was happening? Why didn’t he intervene? Didn’t the Holy books say that he does no evil? How come he has allowed this to happen? What was my offence that was so unpardonable? What is his job if he cannot watch over good people and make sure they’re safe from harm? How can he sit in heaven or wherever and decide what happens to whom? Is there even a God? Maybe he is just a figment of their imagination; something they choose to console themselves with because if he indeed exists, where is he now when I need him the most?
In all of these though, I realize that, if I listen carefully, there’s that still small voice in my head telling me it will all be alright. That tiny quiet voice saying I will be fine if I just hold on.
That voice will always be there; encouraging you, strengthening you until at the very end, everything works out fine.
This is for all those who are experiencing grief in a way no one else can understand.
You are not alone.
Akinsola ‘gboukzi’ Olumide is a Nigerian student of life, thinker and observer.
30 Days 30 Voices series is an opportunity for young Nigerians to share their stories and experiences with other young Nigerians, within our borders and beyond, to inspire and motivate them.
Op-ed pieces and contributions are the opinions of the writers only and do not represent the opinions of Y!/YNaija.