Spilling The Tea On Grieving

It has been minutes since I opened the Word document and started to stare at the blank screen. There are many ways to start this article, but the one that feels the sincerest is, “Hi, my name is Mîna, and I am a griever,” as if this is some Alcoholics Anonymous meeting. Now that I am sitting with my own experience with grief, I have concluded that grieving is something you should hide as humanly as possible. It's like watching The Kardashians or enjoying pineapple pizza. The constant guilt I felt for mourning over my darling, dearest, and dead grandma started to suffocate me. I realized that society handles this process with the same attitude as Fight Club: “First rule: You don’t talk about Fight Club. Second rule: You do NOT talk about Fight Club.” The taciturnity toward grieving caged me with thoughts like: “Am I exaggerating? Am I a drama queen? I should have composed myself way earlier! What is wrong with me?!” Until that one night.

I was at a club with friends, trying to hold onto the life flowing right beside me. But it is hard to be at a party when you feel like an open wound, as they say, so I chose to hide in the bathroom. I was texting my (dead) grandma, saying, “Why did you leave me? I can’t bear this!” by the power vested in me by vodka shots. I must have seemed a bit frantic because some girl asked me if I was texting my ex. For the first time in a long time, I was about to be honest with someone. I said, “No, I am texting my grandma. She is dead, by the way. I think that’s why my messages aren’t delivered. Not having a signal in the grave should be normal, right?” and chuckled shamelessly. Her gaze softened, and she uttered, “That’s okay. I don’t text but sometimes call my grandpa up.” So casually, my eyes popped out of my head. Another girl barged in and blurted, “OMG bestie, same! My mom still pays for my dad’s phone bills so that no one can take his phone number.” While we were 3 A.M. versions of ourselves (vulnerable, honest, real), it hit me that we are all trying to downsize our sorrow just to fit the expectations of people, faking and hiding our ways of dealing.

It should be illegitimate, a crime against humanity.

As Martin Shaw said, no more tame language about wild things. In this article, I am spilling the tea, sharing grief secrets we all are dying to know but afraid to ask. (Yes, the pun was intentional.)

“I miss calling out to them. Sometimes I shout, “Mom, do you want tea?” to her room, as if she is still there, reading her newspapers.”

I think this is a secret nearly everyone can relate to! When we look at the traditions of different cultures and religions, it is impossible not to realize the importance they put on naming. Our names signify identity, power, and connection to the divine or natural world. “It is through names that we first place ourselves in the world,” writes Ralph Ellison. As I recall the time my grandma passed away, one of the things that infuriated me was people starting to call her ‘rahmetli’ (the deceased/late) without using her name. Suddenly her entire personality is downsized to being dead. As if it were her sole trait. She was much more than that, for sure. But things got worse later. In the first few days, she was the main focus. We were all cherishing her memory by sharing our own anecdotes, and discovering her different aspects. Eventually, everyone returned to their homes and lives. The name I once loved like a prayer was deleted from phone contacts one by one. So yes, call it what you want, people do call out their deceased ones and it helps!

“I want to talk about her all. the. time. I want to share each and every detail about her with people so that she won’t be forgotten. Then, I get embarrassed for talking too much and worry if people will leave me for it.”

Every day, I feel an overwhelming desire to talk about her, to share every little detail of who she was and what she meant to me. It is a need to share each and every tiny detail about her. How she wasn’t an affectionate person but always made her telephone background a photo of her bird Arkadaş or how me, my older sister Lale, and our Bedik the Grandma lay on each other and giggled as we watched some goofy reality show. Yet, this compulsion is often accompanied by a gnawing embarrassment. I fear that by talking too much, by constantly bringing her up in conversation, I might push people away. The anxiety of being perceived as overbearing or overly sentimental clashes with my need to ensure she is never forgotten, leaving me in a perpetual state of internal conflict.

“Sometimes I randomly play a song and try to decipher the lyrics as if they were a message from them.”

This act of deciphering lyrics as if they were messages from a loved one or a higher power is definitely a form of emotional solace or a way to feel closer to someone who is not physically present. It is enchanting how music can become a vessel for our thoughts, emotions, and the messages we yearn to receive. It reminds me of Ted Hughes’ poem "Caryatids" (1) where he confesses “In those days I coerced / Oracular assurance / In my favour out of every sign.” So do I, take every sign as a positive message for myself. Sometimes, one line in one song can make my entire day much better, and if this isn’t their invisible hand stroking my hair then I don’t know anything.

“Whenever I mention you in a conversation with a person I met lately, I speak of you as if you were still alive.”

Hands up, this secret is mine and it is on top of my shameful secrets list. Whenever the taxi driver asks if I’m visiting home and will my dad greet me at the airport, I nod. Without any hesitation, I tell him lies I’ve prepared beforehand. Remorse creeps in at some point when he tells me about his children but I tell myself repeatedly that it isn’t a denial of absence but rather a testament to his memory that shadows me. I like the idea of the presence of our loved and lost ones lingering in our words, woven into the fabric of our minds. Hence, talking about them in the present tense keeps their memory vibrant, and maybe one of the most crucial needs of a griever. It's a subtle if not childish rebellion against the finality of loss, a refusal to let you fade into the past. In this way, you remain a constant companion.

“Sometimes I blame them for dying.”

This is one of the secrets I have been told during my research. My friend confessed, “Sometimes, I find myself irrationally blaming my sister for her own passing. I can’t fathom how she could make the choice of abandoning me. Her death had various reasons but some nights it feels like a personal betrayal from her. It feels like a punishment, even.” I think it’s a response rooted in frustration and a deep sense of helplessness. This misplaced blame often stems from a need to make sense of things and to deal with the pain of their absence. This blame is a way to cope with emotional confusion and to channel our feelings into something we can attempt to understand, even if it’s ultimately unfair and futile.

“Especially in the moments where I’m having fun, I feel guilty for not getting upset ‘enough’.”

It’s as if my happiness is a betrayal of their memory, a sign that I’m moving on too quickly, or that I didn’t care enough. The guilt gnaws at me, making joy feel undeserved. This internal conflict adds a layer of complexity to my grief, as I struggle to balance living my life while honoring those I've lost. In these moments, I’m torn between the natural need to experience happiness and the weight of sorrow that insists I shouldn’t. It’s a challenging paradox, where every smile corresponds to a forfeit.

Grieving is a deeply personal and often isolating journey. Through sharing these intimate secrets, we can begin to break down the stigma that surrounds loss. By acknowledging and voicing our pain, we not only honor the memories of those we've lost but also create a space for genuine connection and understanding. Grief, in all its raw and unfiltered reality, is a testament to the love we hold. Turning the remains of a love that should be celebrated into pacta-sunt-servanda-kind-of-secrets is treacherous. Let's continue to share our stories and support one another, transforming our grief into a source of strength and solidarity. After all, in the end, it is the shared human experience that binds us together, making us stronger, more compassionate, and more resilient.