The saxophones are getting louder
On preemptive grief, the mask you wear while leaving, and the person you get to keep
“At first I was afraid, I was petrified. Kept thinking I could never live without you by my side. But then I spent so many nights thinking of how you did me wrong, and I grew strong. I learned how to get along.” — Gloria Gaynor
Preemptive rejection is probably the hardest kind there is to navigate. Bracing yourself for a loss that might happen eventually, or maybe not at all, is overwhelming. My emotions are all over the place, feeling hurt and betrayed while also understanding and motivated. Underneath all of that, I feel grief. Grief for something that has yet to die, and I am willfully choosing not to save because even if it were revived, nothing about it would be the same. Every moment would be full of resentment, knowing that deep down there was the consideration of being discarded.
I imagine it’s how Isaac felt about Abraham after he said, “lol nvm,” when he was gonna sacrifice him on that mountain. That doesn’t just go away. We don’t get to pretend that you didn’t just raise a knife to my throat.
So, I’m choosing to let it die.
The choice to lean into my mourning was born out of not choosing to perform love or loyalty for something that has proven none to me. The idea that by virtue signaling my devotion, I will somehow salvage everything is not only absurd, but it sets the precedent for an existence I can’t live in forever.
Grieving something that’s still very much alive isn’t easy, but it does have its benefits.
The nice thing about mourning something that is still alive is that you have time to prepare to take the blow. You have time to gather resources, reinforce your life, make adjustments, and mentally prepare. You’ve cried so many tears in anticipation that when it happens, you can fully accept it with peace in your heart. Just like a tornado warning — it doesn’t stop your house from getting blown away, but it does help you make it out alive.
There’s also something beautiful about the whole ordeal. Like a little gift from life. The gift of knowing that death will come sparks something in you to live. To enjoy life to its fullest extent while starting to plan what life looks like on the other side of this. There’s a popular question: would you rather know how you’re going to die or when? Knowing that the time is coming inspires you to make every moment in between count.
It’s not all easy, and honestly, quite foolish to think that this level of loss carries no impact. The hardest part of knowing the end is coming is the mask that must be worn in the meantime. Hiding the truth. The tear that can’t slip. The attitude that can’t fluctuate. The person who can’t crack. The sense of normalcy that is required, not because you don’t want to let on that you know, but because it hurts to touch the raw reality of the saxophones that are getting louder.
I do take comfort in knowing that these realities haven’t changed my heart posture. The thing you love, the person it made you, none of that changes just because a person, place, or thing is gone. Loss doesn’t change the purpose of life; it reinforces it. It proudly proclaims that even if it’s not with you, this outcome is still mine. In fact, it’s never felt more mine than it does right now.
I know grieving the living is a hard thing to swallow, but it is digestible. And as cliché as it sounds, it’s inspiring me to live the truest, most honest version of myself that I’ve neglected and boxed up. Making the most of what I have till it’s gone.
I will survive, I will survive. As long as I know how to love, I know I’ll be alive.
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