GRAB IT HERE:
| AMAZON | BARNES & NOBLE | LULU | EVERAND | APPLE BOOKS | BOOKS2READ | SMASHWORDS | KOBO |
HOLY SH*T, THEY'RE GONE
An Uncensored Battle Cry for the Bereaved and the Bullshit-Intolerant
Okay, forget your yoga retreats, your healing crystals, and every single saccharine, pastel-covered grief pamphlet they shoved into your trembling hands the second your world detonated. We're talking about Cassandra fucking Crossno's HOLY SHIT, THEY'RE GONE: Navigating the F*cking Aftermath of Loss Without the Bullsh*t, and let me tell you, this isn't a book—it's a goddamn Molotov cocktail lobbed straight into the sterile, sanitized, emotionally neutered landscape of grief literature. This is the uncensored, blood-spattered field manual they should have given you the moment your reality shattered like cheap fucking glass.
Before you even crack the spine, before you process a single sentence, the title hits you like a sledgehammer to the chest. HOLY SHIT, THEY'RE GONE. No glossing over, no gentle introductions, no bullshit euphemisms. The strategically placed asterisks aren't hiding the truth; they're intensifying it, hinting at the raw, unfiltered, primal scream that echoes across every goddamn page. This isn't a gentle nudge; it's a declaration of war against the unrealistic, half-hearted self-help guides championing quick healing and toxic positivity that dominate the market. It’s a warning shot across the bow of polite society, screaming, "We're getting real, and we're doing it with ferocity."
You ever watch your world detonate in real-time? Not metaphorically. I mean actually shatter—like standing barefoot on the goddamn pavement while a nuke drops in your backyard and everyone around you just keeps sipping their pumpkin spice lattes like nothing happened. That’s what grief is. It’s waking up mid-surgery with your chest cracked open and no anesthetic in sight. It’s psychological waterboarding while everyone else gets brunch and fresh fucking starts. Imagine standing in the middle of a goddamn freeway, massive trucks and cars hurtling past you at 90mph, missing you by inches. Your ears are ringing with deafening noise. Your vision blurs and darkens at the edges like you're about to black out. Your legs are paralyzed, feet cemented to the asphalt. And every motherfucker on the sidelines is yelling "just get to the other side" like you’re too fucking dumb to figure that out yourself. That is grief. That paralyzing, surreal, rage-fueled disconnect between your ruined interior and their shiny, intact bullshit lives.
This isn’t a journey. It’s a fucking hostage situation where your sanity is gagged and bound in the trunk while your emotions careen down a mountain road with no brakes. This is crawling through broken glass with no end in sight, just hoping you can scream loud enough that the universe hears you and decides to back the hell off. It’s like you died too, but nobody had the decency to bury you. It monumentally, catastrophically, soul-crushingly sucks.
Enter Cassandra Crossno. She’s not your yoga instructor whispering about finding peace. Fuck peace. She’s your war correspondent, covered in blood and screaming across enemy lines, holding the severed head of denial in one hand and a torch in the other. She’s the battle-hardened, foul-mouthed guide through the eye of the goddamn hurricane that is your grief. Crossno isn't some therapist who’s never had their insides gutted in real time; she's the bitch dragging your bloodied ass out of the fire while screaming “DON’T YOU FUCKING DARE LAY DOWN.”
The genesis of this book wasn't a carefully considered project; it was a goddamn explosion. It was a primal scream born from the crucible of unimaginable loss—Crossno's own harrowing experience of losing her fiancé, Patrick Allen Nichols. His death wasn't a gradual decline; it was a sudden, brutal, utterly unexpected blow that shattered her world in an instant. A violent theft of time. Patrick, her world, her compass, her goddamn oxygen—ripped away like the universe just needed to remind her who’s boss. She didn't lose him—she got robbed. Murdered by fate. Slaughtered by the universe. And the body they left behind? Wasn’t just his. It was hers too.
When Patrick died, the universe didn’t even flinch. But she did. She flinched so hard her bones cracked. She didn’t get a “moment of silence.” She got a pile of bullshit pamphlets about “honoring his memory” and “finding peace.” Peace? The fuck is peace when your heart’s a smoldering crater and your lungs forget how to work without him? The immediate aftermath wasn't quiet reflection; it was a maelstrom of overwhelming grief, paralyzing shock, intense anger, and the crushing weight of guilt. This wasn’t a gentle descent into sorrow; it was a freefall into the abyss. The lack of adequate support during this crucial period fueled Crossno's righteous fury at the inadequacy of existing grief literature.
The morning after Patrick’s heart stopped, some chirpy drone dropped off a grief book with soft clouds and a fucking sunset on the cover. She didn’t even read the title—she turned that shit into a projectile missile and launched it like a grenade. It hit the wall so hard she half-hoped it’d take the whole goddamn room down with it. Why? Because it was pure, industrial-strength horsefuckery. Every condescending, sugar-coated line written by some emotionally neutered therapist. What she needed wasn’t some limp-dick, soft-focus fairy tale on “moving forward.” “Healing takes time,” it cooed. “Grief is a journey,” it whispered. NO, motherfucker. Grief is a chainsaw massacre of your reality. It’s a psychological IED going off in your soul while everyone around you just carries on like nothing’s burning. There’s no journey. There’s no closure. There's only carnage and you—bleeding out, teeth gritted, screaming through the rubble with no map and no morphine.
This book, HOLY SH*T, THEY'RE GONE, was an act of rebellion born from that rage. A refusal to accept the inadequacy, a rejection of sanitized narratives, a defiant assertion of the right to grieve authentically, without a single goddamn apology. Crossno's voice screams, "I get it, and I'm right here with you in the trenches," guiding you through the emotional maelstrom with sharp wit, unflinching honesty, and a profound understanding of the chaotic nature of loss. Her own story serves as the stark, deeply personal backbone, making this a brutally honest and relatable journey. She didn’t volunteer to be a prophet of pain, but the universe slapped a black veil on her and said, “Go forth, bitch. Teach the people what grief really looks like.”
This isn't a gentle read; it's a gauntlet thrown down, challenging you to confront your pain with the same raw honesty. Forget carefully crafted pleasantries; this is a raw, unflinching assault on the senses, a declaration of war against the saccharine lies peddled in the self-help industry. This isn't about comfort; it's about truth—the brutal, ugly, and absolutely necessary truth. This is for the goddamn warriors of sorrow. This is for you, crawling through the barbed-wire trenches of your own fucking soul, half-blind, half-dead, dragging your shredded heart behind you, where every step feels like your ribcage is trying to escape your body.
HOLY SH*T, THEY'RE GONE cuts deeper than any half-hearted guide. It unearths the raw, unfiltered emotions. Written with blistering honesty, it refuses to sugarcoat the experience. In its pages, you’ll find a reflection of your own pain, a voice that resonates, and insights that push back against toxic positivity. Gone are the days of isolation and guilt. In a world where the unfortunate reality of loss often meets a barrage of clichés, this book emerges like a raging tempest, demanding to be heard.
What if there was a guide that didn't pull any punches? What if someone finally gave you permission to rage, to cry until your lungs ache, to break down completely, and to rebuild your life on your own terms, without a single goddamn apology? This is that guide. Crossno stands with you, armed with illuminating insights and a fierce understanding of the many layers of grief.
Prepare to confront your fears, embrace your emotions, and emerge with a fiercer understanding of what it means to love deeply and grieve fiercely. The book tackles the shit no one wants to talk about:
- The Physical Assault: GRIEF WILL EAT YOUR BODY ALIVE AND ASK FOR SECONDS. Your brain? Hijacked. Your immune system? Tanked. Your energy? Nonexistent. Your Immune System Is Like, “Bye Bitch.” You catch every bug. Your stomach’s wrecked. Your hormones riot. Your skin breaks out. Why? Because your body shut down the luxury programs. You’re in trauma survival mode. Grief feels like dying. Tightness. Breathlessness. Nausea. Pain so sharp you think you’re having a heart attack. You go to the ER and they tell you, “Everything’s fine.” NO. It’s not. Nothing is fucking fine. You just got medically gaslit because your pain doesn’t show up on an X-ray. But it’s there. Oh, it’s fucking there. And the fatigue? Oh baby, it’s biblical. It’s “I just walked to the mailbox and need a nap” kind of exhaustion. Cellular. Every atom screaming, “We miss them."
- The Mental Fog: Grief isn’t just sadness—it’s a fucking neurological wildfire. Your brain floods itself with cortisol, short-circuits memory, turns logic into mush. Your decision-making goes to shit. You can't focus. You forget why you walked into the room. Again. You leave your keys in the freezer and your dignity in the toilet. You’re tired down to your soul. You forget words mid-sentence. You do things. Say things. Sign shit. None of it sticks. You could have a goddamn alien abduction in the middle of your kitchen and you’d just blink at it.
- The Societal Bullshit: No one hits pause when your world disintegrates. Time doesn’t freeze. Bills don’t stop. Your boss still wants the report. Your friends still wanna brunch. Meanwhile, you’re barely managing not to collapse in a grocery aisle because their favorite snack is still on the shelf and fuck, how is that even possible? And society? That emotionally lobotomized organism gives you a two-week grace period before tugging at your sleeve: “Come on now, you should be feeling better.” Oh, should I? To which Crossno says: go. fuck. yourself. They want their grief neat, tidy, and behind closed doors. Your screaming makes them squirm. Your tears ruin the party. And if you dare to still be struggling? People start treating you like a problem. Like you're broken. Or attention-seeking. Or dramatic.
- The Grief Inquisition: Everyone’s an expert now: “You should talk more.” “You should cry less.” “You should go out.” “You should stay home.” “You should be over it by now.” They say “should” like it’s a goddamn commandment. Like your grief is something to be fixed with a checklist. Bitch, please. My grief doesn’t have an aesthetic—it has eye bags, unwashed hair, and the emotional stability of a rabid raccoon.
- The Clueless Platitudes: Get ready for the onslaught. "Everything happens for a reason." (Unless the reason is the universe is a vindictive bitch with a hard-on for destruction). "God needed another angel." (NO THANK YOU, GOD. WE’RE FULL UP ON SUNRISES RIGHT NOW. TRY AGAIN NEVER.) "Time heals all wounds." (Yeah? Time can suck my dick.) Crossno provides strategies for shutting them the hell up without committing a felony.
- The Friend Filter: Most people suck at grief. They’ll ghost. They’ll avoid. They’ll say stupid shit like “You’re strong” when you’re actively disassociating on a bathroom floor. Grief strips away the fake and the shallow. You’ll find out real fast who’s in your corner and who can eat gravel. The people who stay—the ones who hold you without fixing, who let you sob snot into their hoodie without flinching—those are your ride-or-die trench mates. They won’t try to fix you. They won’t flinch when you cry. They’ll just show the fuck up—with tacos, whiskey, a shovel, or a goddamn alibi if needed. To the ones who stayed... We see you. We feel your love through the darkness... we fucking love you for it.
- The Rage: You’re furious at the world. At the people who get to keep breathing. At doctors. At fate. At God, if you believe in one—or especially if you don’t. At them—yes, sometimes even at your person who fucking died and left you behind. And guess what? That’s NORMAL. That’s HUMAN. It's rage without a tidy target, and it eats you alive if you don't find a release valve. You’ll want to punch throats. And honestly? No judgment if you do. Don’t let anyone tell you to “calm down” or “find peace.” Peace can suck it. Right now, you need a goddamn bat and something to break. There’s power in rage.
- The Guilt: Grief breeds guilt like rotting meat breeds maggots. It doesn’t matter if you know you did everything you could. It doesn’t give a single shit about logic. Guilt is a cruel bastard that whispers: You should’ve done more. You should’ve saved them. You failed. You have to fight that voice. Every day. Because guilt is a liar wearing your voice.
- The Silence & Loneliness: This is the part no one prepares you for: when the noise dies down. When the calls stop. When the “let me know if you need anything” assholes vanish into the ether. That’s when it sinks in. Eventually, the dust settles. The texts slow down. The casseroles rot in your fridge. And that’s when it gets worse. Grief is the loneliest crowded room you’ll ever sit in. No one tells you how heavy the silence is when their toothbrush is still in the cup. Or how your body forgets they’re gone until it turns to say something and hits the wall of oh right, nevermind. This is grief’s longest stretch—the silent war. No explosions, no sobbing breakdowns—just a crushing, quiet absence of everything.
- The Annihilation of Self: Here’s something no one tells you: when your person died, so did you—the version of you that existed before the loss. You’re not the same. You won’t be the same. You can't go back. That person—who laughed easier, who made plans without dread, who thought certain things would last forever—is gone. And holy hell, grieving them on top of your person is like setting fire to your own shadow. Grief is the annihilation of everything you knew. You didn’t fall apart. You exploded.
- The Spiritual Freefall: Whatever you believed before your person died—about life, death, God, fairness, love, purpose—it’s about to get fucking torched. Grief burns it all down. You’re left staring into the void, asking questions that don’t have answers. Why them? Why now? Why the fuck does any of this exist if it ends in this much pain? You’re allowed to flip off the sky and say, “God, you can meet me in the fucking parking lot.”
HOLY SH*T, THEY'RE GONE functions as a comprehensive survival kit for the soul. It’s a hand reaching out from the darkest depths of grief, pulling you up, whispering, “You’re not alone. You’re not crazy. And you’re going to make it through this.” Crossno's powerful voice cuts through the noise of well-meaning but often unhelpful advice, offering a space for raw emotion, unfiltered truth, and a fierce embrace of the messiness that is grief. It’s permission. Permission to feel every goddamn thing. Permission to break. Permission to not be okay for a very, very long fucking time.
This book doesn’t offer peace treaties or salvation on a silver platter. There’s no glory here. What it offers is validation, community, and the raw truth. It lets you know that your pain is heard, your heartbreak honored. It’s a battle cry for every single person who's ever wanted to rip the stars from the sky because they dare to keep shining when their world is burning ashes.
Crossno acknowledges the harsh reality: Grief doesn’t get easier. You just get meaner. But there’s strength in scars. There’s fire in survival. There is no closure. Fuck closure. There is integration. Perseverance. Coexistence with pain. Eventually—after the dust settles, after the aftershocks fade—you will start to feel the faintest flicker of something else. Not happiness. Not peace. Something harder. Heavier. Resolve. You don’t “recover” from grief. You reconstruct. Brick by bloody brick. Not the same house. Not the same person. But something new. Something forged in fire. Something unshakable.
From that wreckage, you will claw your way forward—not healed, not whole, but fucking alive. You're not losing yourself. You’re becoming someone who knows what survival really looks like. And when the world looks at you with pity in their eyes, not realizing you’ve walked through hell barefoot and clawed your way back out? Smile. They have no idea who the fuck they’re dealing with now. You’re allowed to be a bitch. You’re going to survive it the only way you fucking can: With grit in your teeth. With fury in your chest. With middle fingers raised to every idiot who tries to “fix” you. And with every scar worn like a battle medal.
This is grief, unfiltered. This is pain, weaponized. This is survival when every cell in your body is screaming for a world that no longer exists. It’s rebirth through fire.
Let’s break the silence and start talking about the things that make us truly human. Let’s speak the truth no one else will. This is grief, motherfucker. Welcome to the fucking front lines. Welcome to the goddamn ashes. Now let’s set the truth on fire. Light a match. Let’s burn this bitch down.
If you're shattered—stay shattered. If you're angry—let it burn. If you're sobbing into your steering wheel—don’t apologize. You’re allowed to break. You’re allowed to not be okay. You’re allowed to say, loud and proud: “I don’t know how to live without them.”
This is not the end of your story. It’s the part where you rise, screaming and sacred, covered in dirt, with your heart still beating like a drum. You are not alone. You are not crazy. You are not broken. You’re just grieving. And you're doing it like a goddamn warrior.
So, are you in? Good. Let’s burn the rulebook.
See you in the ashes, badass.
