The Insanity of Grief

I told David recently that I think there should be grief rehabilitation centers.

Some nice institution with quality, high-thread-count sheets and a staff of people in white coats who speak in whispers and don't try to make me eat anything but tea and toast.  There would be thick carpeting and cool tile and also pets would be allowed but someone else would feed them and bathe them and let them in and out and walk them if I didn't feel up to it.

There would be cushy white leather furniture and soft music playing and also salons where someone else could wash and blow dry my hair and make it smell good without me having to expel any energy.  In fact, I would be forced to get spa treatments even if I said I didn't want them.  My therapist would write me prescriptions for facials and mudwraps.  I wouldn't have to make any decisions about anything.  I would have a wardrobe of soft cashmere sweaters and stretchy pants and lots of pairs of those aloe-infused socks.  Friends and family could visit us during regular hours.  We'd have group therapy and individual therapy and couple's therapy and online retail therapy.  Also there would be art classes and yoga classes and jewelry making (all optional).  We would be forced to stay a minimum of twelve weeks, longer if necessary to get through holidays or other objectionable days of supposed celebration.

It would be like a swanky hotel and spa, but even nicer, and with grief therapists on staff.

I imagine an escape like that because I just feel so afraid of life sometimes.

I still feel most days that I want to be shut away from the real world and in a place where I will never have to go to Target or the grocery store.  A place where everyone will know that I am fragile and must be treated with care.  A facility where everyone will not only know that I am grieving, but will accept that as fine and normal and it will, in fact, be their job to take care of me.


It makes sense because someone who feels like I feel should be institutionalized.  Surely I cannot be expected to function in the everyday world.  I am far too broken.  I need therapy.  And high thread count sheets.  And tea and toast.

* * *

The truth is that I do worry about going crazy but more often, I worry about NOT going crazy.

What does it say about me if I'm able to recover from this?  Will it mean I didn't love Eliza enough?  Shouldn't my sanity be the price that I pay for losing her?

These are crazy questions, I realize.

As I said, I really ought to be institutionalized.