The Monster In My Head I Call Grief

I woke up to the doorbell ringing. It was 9:45 at night, I don’t usually get visitors at all especially at this time of the night. I had not slept the night before. It was the 22nd. It was my Dad’s birthday, he had passed away in May of 2004 yet I still can hear the sound of his voice if close my eyes and listen really hard. That wonderful soft southern drawl. Of course the 22nd is the day Konnor passed and it never goes unnoticed nor does it come up quietly, it comes in like a storm.

All the emotion of the day prior had worn me out and I must have fallen asleep before nine. When the doorbell woke me I was startled. My son came up to my room and asked, “Did you hear it too?” It was so abnormal it took a moment for us both to realize it actually had rang. After carefully looking out the windows it was determined nobody was outside. Strange. However, this one stupid incident set my mind into a tailspin of “what if’s” and “could have’s.” My night of makeup sleep had now been catapulted into another night of mindless upset.

What if I wasn’t home and my son was subjected to a break-in? What if the person at the door tried to get in?? Would my son have called 911? Could something have happened??

In truth I have always been a panicked mother. I worry, I am over-protective. But now there is death. Death has worked its way into my life and into my head and planted it’s morbid self there. Death has changed me. Death has turned me into a maniac.

I have my son checking in when he gets to work, when he gets to any destination really. Bless this kid because he understands my obsession and complies with it. But at night the monsters come out and they are real.

There is no cure for grief or the aftermath. No cure for the panic and fear that arise from the sudden death of one close to you. Daylight has distractions and noise. Night falls and my along with the quiet of the night my mind becomes noisy with thoughts. Thoughts of death and tragedy as I lay there alone in the dark. These thoughts in the darkness are bleak and alarming, I become unnerved.

I medicate myself if need be. Xanax is my drug of choice. When I can’t talk myself out of the bizarre thoughts after hours of lying there, I give in and take a pill. There is no other way out of my head. The catastrophes in my mind are real. They are feasible, they are dark and they are disturbing. I cannot stop these thoughts from racing through my mind the moment I put my head to pillow.

During the day I can meditate, practice yoga, eat healthy. I read before I go to sleep yet nothing can prepare me enough to block out the endless, unreasonable, tragic and graphic scenes that play out in my mind. Anything bad that can happen will manifest itself in my head. Certainly this does not pertain to this decade either. My mind will replay something that happened when I was seventeen years old, I am now fifty-four. I wonder if I am slowly losing my mind.

The loss of sleep affects me in my daily life. I struggle with speech. I clearly know what I wish to say but what comes out is not even close to what I wanted to say. I am more than forgetful, I cannot remember anything. Anything other than horrible things, painful things, tragic things. Lastly, I am tired. Tired because I can’t sleep. The demons in my head won’t let me be.

I know what I think is irrational, I know what has been done is done. I tell myself all these things to quiet my mind. Yet it does not matter. My mind is still thinking, still working through conversations of yesterday, conversations that may never be. My mind imagines circumstances and scenarios. I am helpless to my thoughts. My demon is my mind, my thoughts, my own brain. A mind that is still grieving.

Grief is a monster. It carries it’s own energy. It attacks you from the inside out. It has nearly taken all of my heart and now it is working on my mind. Thoughts in my head can be very dark. I want to believe they are a product of my imagination and of my grief. I try hard to believe.

But in the dark all the monsters are real.

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Grieving Grandmother to Konnor Mason who passed suddenly at eight years old on November 22, 2015. With this blog I hope to share my thoughts and feelings as I move forward through grief toward hope and healing.

17 thoughts on “The Monster In My Head I Call Grief

  1. thank you for your beautiful way of capturing what grief is and what it does to your soul. my 20yo son was killed in a car accident 4/7/16. it is the most painful thing i have ever experienced in my soul…. i didn’t know that place was even there until that day and now, the following days of surviving. i forward your writings to my mother as well because as Brandon’s grandmother, i know her soul is broken too and for whatever reason, knowing that someone else out there understands is so important and comforting. so thank you!

    Liked by 1 person

    1. First, I am so sorry for your loss. I can only pray you have all the love and support around you.
      As a grandparent there is nothing worse than the helplessness we feel when our child suffers the loss of their child. Konnor passed November 2015 and I still suffer the aftershocks of his loss. It is a long recovery for our heart and our soul.
      My heart goes out to you and to grandma.
      Thank you for reading my story.


    2. I’m just just reading this. It is so exactly how I feel. I lost my grandson August 13, 2017. And when you say you didn’t know that place of painful heartwrenching grief exist, I remember saying that right after his death, and I’m still saying it. How is it possible for a person to feel such overwhelming sadness.

      Liked by 1 person

      1. Indeed, I never thought I could endure such pain. Even today when I think about Konnor I am overcome with sadness and I still cry. We as their grandmothers loved them so deeply the love is still there, grief is still so raw. My thoughts and prayers are with you. We will never be the same. 💔


  2. Beautiful way to explain grief. This is really how it is, and i thought there was no way to express it. Well, you succeeded and it will help others to understand the feeling. Thank you for writing these powerful words.

    Liked by 1 person

  3. I remember my last words to my son, ” I will see you Christmas Eve.” That terrible call came in the next evening. We raced to the hospital and spent the next 10 days in the ICCU hoping and praying for a miracle. December 31st we took our son off life support and he died shortly after. I remember on the drive home wondering why there were Christmas lights on. I had forgotten. It was New Years Eve. I remember turning the Christmas tree on when we arrived home and just staring at it in stony silence. It was beyond surreal.
    When the telephone rings now in the night, or just when I’m not expecting a call, I prepare myself for the worse. I can feel myself start to shake. When I speak to my daughter on the telephone, I listen to the nuances of her voice and etch each word she speaks into my brain. Will this be the last time I ever speak to her?
    It’s an awful existence really. Waiting for the other shoe to drop. Wondering what I ever did wrong to deserve such punishment. Every second of every minute of every hour of every day is spent thinking of my son and how much I love and miss him. No parent should have to endure such torture. The cold reality is that there are thousands of parents just like me trying to live with this stark reality.
    I count myself lucky that I have such a wonderful son and a wonderful daughter. My son was never supposed to live. I had a very difficult pregnancy with him. I was lucky to have any time with him yet twenty five years was still not enough.
    Grief is raw and no one can escape it. I just wish sometimes it had passed me by.
    Thank you for sharing your feelings on your terrible loss of Konnor. It helps to know I am not alone.

    Liked by 1 person

    1. I’m so sorry for your loss. Our lives are never the same when we lose a loved one, especially those that pass so young. Not a day goes by where I don’t think of Konnor. Writing out these thoughts has made me realize, like you, I am not alone.


  4. I’m so sorry for the loss of your beloved son. My son,Wayne was killed in a car accident on Aug 18,2005. My life has never been the same since. This describes me everyday since he left. Thank you for putting into words the way I feel. My sincerest condolences.

    Liked by 1 person

  5. Thank you for writing this because this is me every single breathing night since my precious mom died on 12.29.2013. Up until reading this article did I think I was going out of my mind. Literally going nuts. I thought this was my punishment for all the wrong make that I did in life. I couldn’t understand it let alone truly know how to put it into words. I’m so sorry for your loss but maybe you and I can take comfort in knowing we are not alone.

    Liked by 1 person

    1. Grief takes on many forms, at night it can take on the form of fear once we are alone and in the dark. My writing has proved to me again and again that I am not alone. I’m sorry for the loss of your mother, know she is still with you in spirit.


  6. My Mother died suddenly at the age of 76. I was named executor. My sister was jealous and her second husband who was 84 tried to take her estate. This combination made the estate go on for three years and wasted $70,000. Not only was I numbed trying to grieve but I was numbed by the greed of siblings and my step father and his children. The pain is less sharp but I still can not believe what happened. I don’t know if I was allowed to grieve with the mess created by those people. I miss my Mom, I miss my Mom before dementia, and I miss the family that was torn apart by my sister and her antics. I don’t sleep either. I felt like I lost my mind, I still do. This has to get better. Sorry for the loss of your grand baby…


    1. I’m so sorry for your loss and the issues surrounding this loss. Unfortunately this is very common. The death of a loved one can tear a family apart leaving further suffering and pain. My prayers are with you.


  7. Thank you for writing about what happens after dark. Thoughts of the catastrophies that might happen. Having to keep preoccupied to keep them at bay. Then, dropping the guard and in they march. So sorry for the loss of your grandbaby, Konnor. I lost my 24 year old son 3 years ago, and I can relate to what you said about having your kids check in with you, and anxiety of waiting for the other shoe to drop. Again, thanks for sharing. Other peoples sharing helps me in my own grief.

    Liked by 1 person

    1. I’m sorry for your loss too. Although our thoughts will not go away there is some comfort in knowing others are going through the very same thing. Fear is a very isolating emotion. My best to you.


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