Unmoving Carcass
Grief changes the brain by altering our chemistry or reality?
“How did the laundry pile up and take up the entire room? Where is my bed?”
“Oh, it’s fine! I’ll just lie here on the floor. It’s where I’m comfortable.”
When you experience a devastating loss, your brain registers the emotional trauma as a severe physical threat. Explaining the chemistry can seem simple when you find out your “why’s.” For example:
The Amygdala Hijack: Your brain’s threat-detection center goes into overdrive.
The Prefrontal Cortex Shuts Down: The region responsible for logical decisions goes offline.
Usual timed routines are temporarily unavailable. Your brain simply does not have the glucose or energy to process reality, so it forces you into autopilot—strictly to keep you alive.
When our brains refuse to handle reality, we start to act out, changing the course of our daily activities. We go haywire, steering the boat away from conscious decisions, turning our normality straight into an immense, underwhelming iceberg. Every second we live, we make a choice. But sometimes there is just a moment in time where we cannot think, and we lean toward the automatic stick.
There’s a difference between when you can’t decide on what movie to watch with your friends, versus when you can’t remember if you want to brush your teeth. Your simple routine isn’t making sense anymore, and you can’t tell if you want it to, either.
Falling into grief’s hands isn’t anything someone takes with open arms. The stages inside are not something anyone is ever prepared for. How we handle these situations won’t— for even a second feel right, as there is no right way.
A crowd gathers to watch the collision, to watch a drowning. With choice, they watch and watch—all eyes are lit and fixed on you—but still, where are their hands? Your vision is dew, blinded by water; you don’t see the help. Lungs are now starting to burn and your fingers go numb. You feel numb, light, and unafraid. Do you want to get out or stay put?
No one can make you want to breathe but you.
The only one you want to see is no longer with you, and holding onto your last exhale won’t be a definite promise that you both can conciliate. There’s no one else to call. It feels funny because you never imagined this: to feel so astray from the ground.
During those moments inside the water, your senses are incredibly blocked. You had no idea you weren’t trying—trying to be out of tune. Or maybe you did? Did you not want to suffer under scrutiny, or play casualties? It’s true life was the best with the right person still alive. Nothing will take that away.
But don’t you think others value your drawing exhales just as much? That someone wants to be by you, willing to wait for a miracle of time—to heal with you. Isolation is exceptionally lovely to misery; they can both thrive as long as they cling to one another. You don’t have to be alone, nor feel like you should want to.
Allow your senses back in: feel, see, and hear. Reckon that it is hard after crashing waves and sliced abrasions. But your natural id is to keep your arms and legs moving—use them as you align inside. Take kind care of the person they loved with bandages and soft devotion. The love is still there; vacancy isn’t enough to vanish it.
Organs inside of your body can once again flow together with a core-feeding heart. You remember that you still have a pack of frozen chicken, and a clean shirt that once belonged to your piece—your peace of mind. You made a change entering a new room. The chicken didn’t rot inside that cold chest; it stayed in its iced state, just a momentarily unmoving carcass.
Running hot water feels real. Your fingertips agree with your vessels, and then you realize: you can breathe.
They are not here anymore, but you are. In the memories you hold onto, you can feel physically inside and out that there is an art to driving back to reality. You don’t have to exactly know or do anything but keep the thought: there’s no need to break your ankles just to walk outside your tomb.
Source: The Grieving Brain by Dr. Mary-Frances O’Connor
If you have experienced this kind of survival mode, what did your "unmoving carcass" moment look like? Was it a pile of laundry, a frozen meal, or a routine that suddenly made no sense? If you feel comfortable, share your thoughts in the comments below.
Thank you for reading!
I loved this article as you portrayed grief by tying both scientific and emotional concepts together! Like the previous comment, I lost my grandfather earlier this year. I definitely found it tough to do daily chores, like laundry, for weeks afterwards and it was difficult to stick to a routine in the days/weeks following (trying to fall asleep was rough). Exercising used to be something I loved but for quite some time afterwards, it was tough to get through a workout class.
Even though time has moved forward, thoughts about the loss still creep in from time to time. Thankfully, especially since grief/acceptance is not a linear process, having friends and a good community has helped <3
This reminds me of the week after my late grandfather passed away and how even normal things felt like a chore and I didn’t want to do anything other than scroll. Thank you for sharing this. It was beautiful and poignant and well written.