Alright, you magnificent, battle-scarred survivors. You’ve walked with me through the immediate blast zone. You’ve navigated the messy middle, wrestled with ghosts, and cursed the endless parade of clueless idiots. You understand, by now, that my words are raw, my truth is brutal, and I don’t give a single, solitary fuck about any comfort zone. Because what I’ve seen, what I’ve lived, makes that comfort zone a fucking fairy tale.
We’re going to talk about The Street.
This isn’t a story about the initial shock of loss, though Patrick’s death ripped my world apart like a goddamn nuclear bomb. This isn’t even about the messy middle of navigating grief brain or the relentless parade of stupid humans. This is about the deepest, darkest, most terrifying fucking pit of my grief war, the one that burned away every last shred of my composure, every polite filter, every single fuck I had left to give. And it is the most raw, most terrifying, most defining period of my entire fucking existence.
Remember in the first book, HOLY SH*T, THEY’RE GONE, I screamed about those eight torturous days? The ones where I slept in my car, parked outside our house, convinced Patrick was just being his stubborn, magnificent-asshole self, giving me the silent treatment, while he was, in fact, inside, dead? That was just the goddamn prelude. That was the curtain raiser for a descent into a nightmare so profound, so utterly dehumanizing, it still makes the breath catch in my throat.
About seven months after Patrick died — seven months into the soul-shattering, brain-melting, rage-fueled inferno of losing the love of my life — my own fucking family decided I wasn’t grieving correctly. My grief wasn’t neat enough. It wasn’t fast enough. It wasn’t conforming to their goddamn arbitrary timelines, their pathetic understanding of sorrow. They didn’t like the mess. They couldn’t handle the raw, persistent pain that refused to disappear just because they were uncomfortable. It wasn’t understanding. It was control. It was, “Get your shit together, or we’ll make you.”
And I refused.
Because even in my shattered state, even with my Grief Brain misfiring and my soul screaming, a primal, defiant core of me recognized that fundamental truth: No one, NO FUCKING ONE, gets to dictate how I grieve. No one gets to tell me when my sorrow is “too long,” or my rage is “too much,” or my grief is “wrong.” No one gets to control my process of surviving the unimaginable.
And when I refused to let them dictate how I handled the annihilation of my entire goddamn world, when I pushed back against their feeble attempts at “intervention” — telling me I needed to “get help,” to “check myself in somewhere” — they did the unthinkable. The truly monstrous.
Homeless.
That word. It hits you like a goddamn brick to the teeth, doesn’t it? Homeless. I was already drowning. Drowning in grief so profound it felt like every cell in my body was screaming. Drowning in the agonizing absence of Patrick, who was my anchor, my home, my fucking reason for breathing. Drowning in the guilt of our last fight, his last angry words, the slammed door that echoed in my soul like a cannon blast. Drowning in the terrifying reality that my world had vaporized and I was a shattered ghost trying to navigate its ruins.
And then, my own family — the people who were supposed to love me unconditionally, who were supposed to be my safe harbor, my fucking blood… they added another layer of concrete to the crushing weight. They kicked me out. Made me homeless. Because my pain was too inconvenient.
For the next six months, my home was a car that was never meant to be lived in. That small, metal box — never meant to be a home — became my prison, my refuge, my coffin, my everything. My sanctuary was the driver’s seat. My ceiling was the indifferent sky. My constant companion was the cold, unyielding reality of absolute, terrifying exposure.
Try to wrap your mind around that reality. Try to conjure the emotions. Because they are darker, more terrifying, more utterly dehumanizing than anything I can possibly describe with mere words.
And this, my friends, is why I am this fucking loud about grief. This is why I don’t tiptoe. This is why I drag the ugly, the uncomfortable, the unspeakable truths, kicking and screaming into the light. Because I have seen the darkest, deepest, most terrifying parts of grief, not just as an emotion, but as a goddamn weapon. And I somehow survived it.
THE DESPAIR: WHEN THE DARKNESS BECOMES YOUR BEDMATE
Imagine. Six months. Six endless, agonizing months. Not just grieving the love of your life. Not just battling the relentless internal demons of loss. But fighting, tooth and goddamn nail, to simply exist in a world that felt like it had utterly abandoned you.
The emotional whiplash was beyond anything any human mind should have to endure. The despair was a physical entity. It wrapped around me like a cold, wet shroud. It seeped into my bones, chilling me to the core. Every night, curling up in that cramped, unforgiving space, the cold outside mirroring the cold in my soul, the despair was my bedmate. It whispered insidious lullabies of oblivion, reminding me how easy it would be to just… stop.
The thought of “What if I just stop?” becomes a seductive whisper, a promise of relief from a torment that feels eternal. It’s the moment when the distinction between wanting the pain to stop and wanting to cease existing blurs into a terrifying, indistinguishable haze. There were moments, hours, days, in that car, when the darkness was so absolute, so complete, that I truly believed I would not survive it. That the pain, the cold, the hunger, the shame, the absence of Patrick, would finally just consume me.
My grief for Patrick didn’t lessen. Oh, fuck no. It amplified. It became a monstrous, suffocating presence that filled the cramped confines of my car. I wasn’t just grieving the absence of his laughter, his touch, his love. I was grieving the absence of a roof over my head. The absence of safety. The absence of warmth. The absence of dignity. Every shivering breath in that freezing car was a scream for him, a desperate plea for the life we had, for the home we built, for the safety he provided. The trauma of homelessness wasn’t separate from my grief; it became an insidious, suffocating layer of it, making the air taste even more like ash, making the void feel even blacker. The thought, “If he were here, this wouldn’t be happening,” was a relentless, agonizing loop in my head.
The guilt, already a monster from Patrick’s last angry words, now swelled to a Biblical proportion.
Why is this happening?! How did I get here? Did he see this? Is he watching me from wherever he is, seeing the ruin of my life, the consequence of his absence, the utter betrayal of my own family? What did I do to deserve this? Was this my punishment? For the fight? For surviving? For simply being? The guilt told me I deserved this. That I was unlovable. That even my own blood deemed me trash.
The world felt utterly hostile. Every car that passed, every person who walked by, was a terrifying reminder of a normalcy, a safety, a basic human dignity that had been brutally ripped away. And there I was — invisible, a ghost haunting the edges of a society that refused to see me, let alone care.
THE RAGE: A BURNING INFERNUM WITH NOWHERE TO GO
The rage. Oh, the goddamn rage. It didn’t just simmer; it boiled, it seethed, it threatened to incinerate me from the inside out.
Rage at myself. For being so stupid. So trusting. For letting my life shatter so completely. For being so weak that I couldn’t even keep a roof over my head. For not having anywhere to go. For not being strong enough to just… fix it.
This rage had no outlet. Screaming in the car would invite more unwanted attention. Punching the steering wheel wouldn’t solve a damn thing. It festered, it churned, it threatened to turn me into a walking, talking bomb. It was a constant, internal battle to not let the rage consume me entirely, to not let it drive me to desperate acts that would only deepen the hell.
THE ANIMALISTIC INSTINCT: WHEN SURVIVAL BECOMES THE ONLY LAW
When everything else is stripped away — comfort, safety, dignity, connection — what’s left is pure, raw, animalistic survival. And it’s ugly. It’s desperate. It’s profoundly dehumanizing. This amplified the feeling of having my entire life stolen — not just by death, but by the devastating aftermath.
Every day was a fight. A fight for food. A fight for warmth. A fight for a safe place to park for the night where I wouldn’t be disturbed — or worse. A fight against the sheer, overwhelming effort of simply existing.
Sleep was a precarious gamble. Every rustle outside the car, every distant sound, every flicker of headlights sent a jolt of terror through me, pulling me back from the brink of exhaustion. The sleep I did get was fitful, haunted by nightmares, offering no true reprieve. Waking up was not relief; it was a re-entry into the nightmare.
The constant, low-grade hum of terror never lifted. The fear of what could happen. The fear of being seen. The fear of not surviving. The fear of being completely erased by a world that had no place for me. It’s a paralyzing, soul-deep terror that leaves you constantly on edge, unable to relax, unable to find peace.
Hygiene became a brutal, public challenge. Scrambling for facilities, for privacy, for any semblance of cleanliness. The indignity of it all gnawed at my soul, adding another layer of shame to the already crushing weight of grief. The feeling of being dirty, exposed, vulnerable intensified the sense of profound dehumanization.
Decision-making was stripped to its barest essentials: Where do I park tonight? What can I eat that won’t spoil? How do I stay warm? Complex thought, planning, any semblance of a future — those luxuries were gone. My brain, already a chaotic mess from grief, was now operating solely on survival mode, prioritizing the most basic needs.
This wasn’t “rebuilding” in the way I preach in the books. This was simply clinging to existence. This was the rawest, ugliest, most terrifying form of survival — where the line between living and simply not dying blurred to an almost invisible thread.
THE SILENCE: A BETRAYAL LOUDER THAN ANY SCREAM
The silence of the world was a betrayal. People drove by, walked by, lived their normal, oblivious lives, utterly unaware of the living hell unfolding inches away. The sheer indifference of it all was a cold, hard slap to the face. My world had exploded, and theirs continued, uninterrupted, uncaring. And I was out there, a ghost haunting the edges of their reality, fighting a war on two fronts — one external, for survival; one internal, for my very soul.
This wasn’t isolation; it was abandonment. A profound, soul-deep abandonment that echoed the primary loss, amplifying the terror of being utterly alone in the face of insurmountable odds.
WHY I AM THIS FUCKING LOUD ABOUT GRIEF (AND WHY YOU SHOULD BE TOO)
And somehow, by sheer, goddamn, bloody-minded refusal to die, I survived it.
And what I realized after surviving that? After enduring that specific, agonizing hell? What else do I have to lose? What else can the world possibly inflict on me that compares to the pain of those six months, layered on top of Patrick’s absence?
Nothing. Absolutely goddamn nothing.
I survived those six months on The Street before the VA, bless their goddamn bureaucratic hearts, eventually, painstakingly, after what felt like an eternity, was finally able to get me into a house, to get me off the concrete and out of that goddamn car. That was my lifeline. That was my anchor, pulled from the bureaucratic abyss. They gave me a chance to stop fighting for basic survival, and to start, slowly, painstakingly, fighting to rebuild.
Those six months were the furnace. The crucible. The ultimate test. And because I lived that hell, because I stared into the abyss of absolute abandonment, desolation, and profound dehumanization, I refuse to let anyone else walk that path in silence.
I refuse to let society’s comfort dictate how anyone grieves. I refuse to let the judgment of the clueless shame another soul into hiding their raw, messy pain. I refuse to let the silence surrounding grief persist, because that silence is dangerous. It kills.
That is why I don’t do soft. That is why I don’t do subtle. This is why I don’t give a single, solitary fuck about offending anyone who hasn’t walked through fire. That is why I will drag the ugly, unspoken truths about grief, kicking and screaming, into the harsh, unforgiving light for all the world to see, whether you’re ready for it or not. Because I have seen what happens when grief is left untended, unacknowledged, unvalidated, and met with judgment and abandonment. I have seen what happens when the human spirit is pushed to its absolute breaking point, not just by loss, but by the indifference of the living.
I scream because I lived. I scream because you lived. I scream because Patrick, my loud, defiant, brutally honest Patrick, would have demanded nothing less. He would have told me to unleash the fury, to rip the lid off the bullshit, to never apologize for telling the truth, however ugly.
My experience on The Street showed me, in the most brutal way imaginable, that grief isn’t just an emotion. It’s a goddamn weapon. It can strip you bare, leave you exposed, utterly vulnerable. But it can also forge you. It can hone your edges, sharpen your sight, and fill you with a furious, unshakeable resolve to fight for yourself, for your truth, for every precious breath you still possess.
So when I scream these truths, when I use profanity like a goddamn weapon, when I refuse to sanitize the agony, when I challenge every comfortable lie society tells about grief — it’s not because I’m trying to shock you. It’s because I’m trying to reach you. It’s because I’m speaking the language of a soul that has been flayed raw and has nothing left to lose but its own goddamn authenticity. It’s the defiant roar of a survivor who knows, intimately, that grief is a motherfucker. That life can be monstrous. But that somehow, against all odds, you can endure. You can fight. You can survive.
My experience of homelessness while grieving Patrick is the bedrock of my brutal authenticity. It’s the foundation of my unwavering conviction that every single goddamn person who has lost their anchor deserves the space, the validation, the respect, and the unapologetic truth about their unique journey through hell.
My voice is loud because I survived the silence. My words are raw because I lived the unfiltered pain. My honesty is brutal because the brutal reality of what I endured demands nothing less.
I’ve been to the bottom of the goddamn abyss. I’ve seen the darkness that breaks people. I’ve felt the cold hand of despair and the terrifying allure of giving up. And because I survived that, because I clawed my way back, because I endured the unendurable…
No one, no fucking one, gets to tell me how to grieve. No one gets to dictate my pain, my timeline, my messy process. No one gets to judge my rage, my tears, my need for raw honesty. No one gets to minimize the sheer, monumental effort it takes to keep breathing when my world has been incinerated.
When I tell you to be loud, to be honest, to refuse to be shamed for your pain, it comes from a place of visceral understanding and never letting myself forget the asphalt altar. It comes from the deepest, darkest trenches of my own survival. It comes from knowing, intimately, what it means to keep breathing when the world feels like it doesn’t want you in it anymore.
Your grief is valid. Your pain is real. Your struggle is seen. And your survival? Your survival is a goddamn miracle.
Keep screaming. Keep fighting. Keep living. Because you are still here. And that, my friend, is the ultimate, most powerful, most defiant “fuck you” to the darkness, to death, and to anyone who ever doubted your capacity to endure.
Originally published at https://cassandracrossno.com on August 26, 2025.
