When Death Keeps Showing Up Uninvited: A Not-So-Gentle Guide to Grief

Death is like that annoying relative who shows up at the worst possible moments, doesn't call ahead, and leaves your entire life in disarray. Except you can't just hide in your bedroom until they leave.

I should know. By 25, I'd lost my first set of parents, then lost the other set before I hit 40. Yeah, you read that right – both sets. Life has a twisted sense of humor sometimes.

First went my adoptive parents (who were actually my grandparents, but try explaining that family tree at parties). Bob and Betty – the ones who raised me, dealt with my teenage drama, and tried their best to maintain that picture-perfect family facade while our dysfunction simmered underneath like a pot about to boil over. They were both gone by 2008, and let me tell you, I handled it with all the grace of a drunk elephant on roller skates. (maybe I was the drunk elephant on roller skates actually)

I did what any reasonable person would do: completely lost my shit, dove headfirst into drugs, strip clubs, affairs and traded one toxic relationship for an even worse one. Because apparently, when life hands you lemons, sometimes you decide to squeeze them in your own eyes.

Then 2020 happened. Because the universe wasn't done with its cosmic joke, both my biological parents – who I'd reconnected with – died within three months of each other. If grief was a Netflix series, this would be the point where viewers would call bullshit on the writers.

Here's the thing they don't tell you about grief: it's as unique as a fingerprint and just as messy. There's no "five stages and you're done" warranty. It's more like a choose-your-own-adventure book where all the choices kind of suck, but you have to pick something anyway.

Some days, you're fine. You're adulting like a champion, paying bills, wearing matching socks, maybe even remembering to water your plants. Then boom – you're sobbing in your car because a song came on that your dad used to sing badly in the shower, or you find an old voicemail from your mom that you forgot to delete.

As an addiction counselor (plot twist, right?), I've seen grief wear many masks. It disguises itself as anger, numbness, workaholism, or that sudden urge to completely reorganized your sock drawer at 3 AM. Sometimes it shows up as a bottle, a needle, or whatever poison people choose to numb the pain. But here's the kicker – grief is like a game of whack-a-mole. The more you try to smack it down, the more it pops up somewhere else.

So what do we do? How do we navigate this mess without completely losing our marbles?

First, let's throw out the rulebook. There's no "right" way to grieve. If you need to ugly cry while watching cat videos, do it. If you need to laugh at a funeral because your brain short-circuits and you remember something ridiculous, that's okay too (just maybe try to do it quietly).

Second, grief isn't just about death. It's about endings. Leaving jobs, ending relationships, getting sober – these are all little deaths in their own way. Each one deserves its moment of recognition, even if society tells you to "just get over it."

Here's what I've learned from my own personal grief circus:

1. The pain doesn't really go away – you just build a bigger life around it. Some days it's a whisper, others it's a marching band in your head.

2. Dark humor helps. A lot. Death is already awkward enough without trying to be solemn all the time.

3. It's okay to not be okay. Really. The whole "staying strong" thing is overrated. Sometimes being strong means crying in the bathroom at work or eating cereal for dinner three nights in a row.

As I plan my wedding (yes, life goes on, surprisingly), I've got these little locket pins for my dress to hold pictures of my parents – all four of them. Because grief and joy often share the same space, like roommates who don't particularly like each other but have learned to coexist.

For those of you reading this who are in the thick of it – whether you're grieving a person, a relationship, a version of yourself, or something else entirely – I see you. This shit is hard. It's okay to stumble. It's okay to fall. Just try not to set up permanent residence in the pit.

And remember, grief is proof that love existed. It's the price we pay for caring about people. Is it worth it? Most days, yes. On the days it's not, well, that's what ice cream and questionable Netflix choices are for.

Keep breathing. Keep moving. And when you can't do either, that's okay too. Tomorrow's another day to try again.

Because in the end, we're all just walking each other home, aren't we? Even if some of us are stumbling, some are taking detours, and some of us are pretending we're not completely lost.

Welcome to the grief club. The membership fee sucks, but the company's not half bad.-Belle-