My grandmother died in late February. Since then I couldn’t stomach publishing. Grief is a funny thing.

I’ve had someone who was like a grandfather die before. I ended up with an eating disorder. My grandmother’s death nearly catapulted me into a full blown depression.

She was my second mother. And the only person in the world who I felt completely comfortable around. With everyone else, including the family who I love dearly, my anxiety rules. I always have niggling doubt whether they truly like me or put up with me because we’re family. I always feel like I have to put on a show. But not with my grandmother. Not with the woman who was orphaned at 9 and lived through the Berlin bombings; what would make others bitter and hard only softened her and grew her compassion. I could tell her anything and she would listen without judgment. When I was an annoying prat, I never felt like she held it against me.

I love her. I miss her. Every day. It is an ache that never seems to go away. Though the mourning comes in waves. Some days it’s as if I just realized that she’s gone and the breathlessness of it all catches me by surprise.

For the first time, I have writers block. The words don’t flow like they usually do. It’s like she took it all with her. All my emotional flexibility, all my imagination. It was wrapped up in my childhood and my love and she took such a large part of it with her.

I just want to ask everyone I meet: Have you ever lost someone important? (Most people have). How have you managed to move on? How do you begin to fully live again?


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