Hidden Grief
The ‘shameful’ thoughts the bereaved are reluctant to disclose
Soon after my dad died in 2004, I came to the logical conclusion that I was evil. I told my new boyfriend about it in a jokey manner, my go-to approach for serious yet scary conversations.
“I’m about 80% evil. Just thought you should know…” I casually mentioned while using a Bic pen to draw a doodle on his hand (one of the many odd flirtations we participated in during the early months).
Never in my life had I been so judgemental, and coupled with that judgment was an underlying riptide of rage.
In college, I was about as straight edge as one could be — no drinking, smoking, drugs, parties, rule-breaking, and until that moment, relationships. He looked at me with a smirk and responded, “Yeah — ok, sure,” and that was that.
He couldn’t see any evil in my innocent presentation and figured it was one of my quirks, like how I would wear old-man velcro sneakers and knee-high socks with splashy patterns.
