You remember the goddamn drill, don’t you? This is where we acknowledge that “peace” is a fucking myth peddled by the comfortably numb. This is where we scream, rage, and sometimes—if the cosmic joke is particularly brutal—manage a dark, ragged laugh in the face of the relentless, soul-shredding reality of grief. This is the sacred, profane chronicle of the daily, microscopic, often unhinged victories in the ongoing war for your sanity:“Dear Diary, Today I Didn’t Commit Murder. Progress.”
If that title still resonates with the deepest, most exhausted, most homicidally-tempted parts of your soul, then congratulations, you’re still beautifully, tragically, goddamn human. And you’re in the right fucking place.
Because this week, the universe has decided to crank up the volume on the everyday stupidity, and frankly, my internal scream room is getting a little crowded. I might need a goddamn liquor license for the amount of internal violence it’s witnessing, or at least a bulk discount on noise-canceling headphones for the neighbors.
Let’s dive into the fresh hell, shall we?
1. GRIEF BRAIN: NOW WITH ENHANCED SABOTAGE FEATURES (AND A NEW LOVE FOR THE DUMB)
You thought you had Grief Brain figured out, didn’t you? You thought once you’d mastered the art of finding your car keys in the goddamn cereal box (a daily achievement worthy of a small bronze statue), you were past the worst of its cognitive fuckery. You thought you’d graduated to merely forgetting appointments or the names of distant relatives.
You thought wrong.
Grief Brain, that magnificent, malevolent saboteur, is always evolving. Always finding new and innovative ways to remind me — and you, if you’ve walked this road — that our internal operating systems are now held together by duct tape, sheer bloody-minded spite, and the desperate hope we don’t accidentally try to pay for groceries with our goddamn passports.
It’s developed a new, sinister sense of humor, too.
The Scene:
It’s Tuesday. Or maybe Friday. Who the fuck knows? Grief Brain ate the calendar for breakfast, probably confusing it with a philosophical treatise on the meaninglessness of time.
I’m standing in the kitchen, attempting to brew my morning coffee. Simple, right?
My brain, however, has decided that the coffee maker is actually a sophisticated communication device for interstellar travel, or perhaps a sentient being demanding a blood sacrifice. I stare at it, my brow furrowed in profound confusion, holding the coffee grounds like an offering to an ancient, caffeine-starved god.
“Is this… a portal?” I mutter aloud, startling the dog, who eyes me with the profound judgment only a creature who sleeps 18 hours a day can truly master.
“Do I… insert coordinates here? Perhaps a small sacrifice of despair, a tear, a lost memory? Or does it just… make coffee?”
My Internal Scream Room:
[Sound of crickets, followed by the faint, high-pitched giggle from the corner where my former sanity now resides, clutching a teddy bear made of shredded memories and rocking back and forth like a traumatized child. Then, the distinct metallic clang of a surgical scalpel being sharpened, just in case Grief Brain goes too far.]
“Oh, Cassie, you magnificent dumbass. It’s coffee. It makes coffee. You, who once managed complex spreadsheets that balanced multinational budgets and debated existential philosophy with Patrick until 3 AM, reducing grown men to tears with your logic. Now, a goddamn Keurig is your nemesis. Just set it on fire and get it over with. It might be less painful than trying to remember the difference between a coffee filter and a fucking sock, which you seem to be wearing on your head.”
Actual Outcome:
I eventually remember how a coffee maker works. After seven agonizing minutes. The coffee is weak. The dog is still judging me.
My coffee, not Patrick’s, because that’s another goddamn silent battle. Another notch on the “I didn’t lose my shit that badly” belt.
Diary Entry:
“Dear Diary, today I managed to operate a basic kitchen appliance without summoning dark cosmic entities or setting off the fire alarm. Patrick would have found this profoundly amusing and would have probably just taken over and made the damn coffee himself, muttering about my incompetence. I miss that bastard. And his superior ability to operate simple machines. Also, Grief Brain made me try to feed the dog a banana. The indignity. Progress. Barely.”
2. BULLSHIT ADVICE: NOW WITH EXTRA LAYERS OF DELUSIONAL SELF-HELP GURU AND TOXIC WELLNESS EVANGELISM (AND A NEW SENSE OF AUDACITY)
You thought the “Time Heals All Wounds” and “They’re in a Better Place” brigades were the worst of it? You thought once they ran out of clichés, you’d be safe?
Bless your cotton socks, you sweet, naive warrior.
That was amateur hour. In the long game, the bullshit advice evolves. It becomes more insidious. More personalized. More aggressively tailored to your specific, ongoing torment by people who’ve clearly spent too much time on wellness TikTok and now think they’re certified grief shamans.
They start showing up with a frightening new level of confidence, like they’ve cracked the code to your soul’s suffering.
The Scene:
I’m talking to a casual acquaintance – let’s call her Deborah, because every Deborah has an unsolicited, infuriatingly confident opinion, especially about my pain – about the lingering, soul-deep exhaustion.
Not the regular “didn’t get enough sleep” tired, no. The soul-deep exhaustion that makes breathing feel like running a goddamn marathon in quicksand, backwards, uphill, while carrying a sack of bricks filled with unresolved trauma.
Deborah (eyes gleaming with the manic, almost evangelical intensity of someone who just discovered fermented cabbage and thinks it’s the cure for cancer and existential despair, now with an added layer of “I’m doing you a favor” condescension):
“Oh, honey, I totally get it. You just need to manifest your healing! The universe is waiting for you to align your vibrations! Have you tried placing ethically sourced amethyst crystals on your chakra points while listening to quantum-healing binaural beats? My psychic medium and my life coach who also sells essential oils told me it works wonders for ‘stagnant energy’ and ’emotional blockages’! And you know, you really should try my essential oil blend for ‘spiritual cleansing.’ It’s only three easy payments of $99.99!”
My Internal Scream Room:
[Sound of a thousand tiny glass bottles shattering, followed by a low, guttural, demonic growl that would make a seasoned exorcist quail. Then, the distinct metallic clang of a surgical scalpel being sharpened, just in case Deborah tries to upsell me on her ‘Grief Glow-Up Package’.]
“Manifest my healing, Deborah? Manifest this goddamn scalpel directly into your perfectly aligned, ethically sourced chakra point! You think a purple rock, some background noise, and a pyramid scheme is going to magically glue back the shattered pieces of my SOUL?! You think I can just ‘vibrate’ away the agony of knowing Patrick is GONE?! My stagnant energy is pure, unadulterated, righteous fucking RAGE, Deborah, and it’s about to manifest directly onto your face! What stagnant energy is currently preventing you from shutting your smug, condescending FUCK hole, and perhaps your essential oil business too?!”
Actual Outcome:
I smile, wanly. My face a mask of weary politeness, probably looking like a traumatized clown.
“That sounds… very spiritual, Deborah. And, uh, deeply personal. I’ll certainly… keep that in mind. Right after I try communicating with my toaster again, and maybe consult a real psychic about my dog’s banana aversion.”
I then back away slowly, mentally adding “buy industrial-strength earplugs AND a fully-stocked personal emergency bunker with a direct line to a tactical response team for spiritual wellness pushers” to my rapidly dissolving to-do list.
Diary Entry:
“Dear Diary, successfully avoided explaining the intricate physics of blunt force trauma to Deborah’s chakra. Maintained precarious civility with the grace of a drunken ballerina on roller skates performing an interpretive dance of ‘I want to commit murder.’ Patrick would have found her profoundly irritating and would have probably told her to meditate on the concept of enduring silence, possibly with a well-aimed thrown object. I miss his brutal honesty. And his willingness to be an asshole on my behalf. Progress. Significant, soul-draining Progress.”
3. ANNOYING HUMANS: THE ONES WHO NOW JUDGE YOUR GRIEF PERFORMANCE (AND DESERVE AN OSCAR FOR THEIR OBLIVIOUSNESS, AND POSSIBLY A PERMANENT MUZZLE)
You’re a veteran now. The initial outpouring of casseroles and performative sympathy cards has dried up faster than a spit-take in the Sahara. People expect you to be “doing well.” They’re watching. They’re judging. And their judgments are just fresh salt in raw, still-bleeding wounds.
They now approach with a new air of authority, as if their distance from your pain makes them experts on it.
The Scene:
I run into a distant relative – let’s call her Carol, because apparently, every family has one, and they all specialize in unwanted grief reviews – at the goddamn grocery store.
I’ve managed to put on pants today. Maybe even brushed my hair with actual effort. I’m having a marginally okay day, a fragile truce with my internal demons. I even let out a small, genuine laugh at a particularly funny meme on my phone while waiting in line for my single, pathetic bag of microwave popcorn.
Carol (eyes narrowing like she’s a grief-sniffing bloodhound detecting a subtle whiff of unapproved joy, now with a hint of accusation):
“Well, isn’t that nice. Good to see you laughing. You know, some people worry you’re ‘dwelling’ too much. It’s been [insert arbitrary, completely insufficient amount of time here, like, ‘a whole year and a half!’], after all. Don’t you think it’s time to move on and be… happy? Like, really happy. For his sake?”
My Internal Scream Room:
[My inner rage monster starts doing burpees with cinder blocks, preparing for a full-scale, biblical-level assault. A demonic choir sings the “Hallelujah” chorus in the background, but it’s a terrifying, death metal version. My imaginary flamethrower is fully fueled.]
*Move on, Carol?! Move on from what?! From my SOUL being ripped out?! From the gaping, screaming, soul-sucking VOID where my partner used to be?! You think my laugh means I’m FIXED?! My laughter, Carol, is a goddamn act of defiance! A middle finger to the universe that tried to break me! A spontaneous eruption of joy in the face of annihilation! And my ‘dwelling’ is called processing a monumental, life-altering trauma!
Your judgment is called ignorant! And your smug, judgmental face is about to become intimately acquainted with this bag of microwave popcorn, so you can dwell on that!
For his sake?! Patrick would haunt your ass for that comment, you clueless bitch!”
Actual Outcome:
I pivot, my face a mask of weary politeness and carefully controlled micro-expressions.
“Grief is complex, Carol. It doesn’t follow a timeline. My emotions are my own. As is my popcorn. And frankly, Patrick’s wishes are none of your goddamn business.”
I then proceed to buy three extra bags of popcorn just to annoy her. And maybe, just maybe, I consider a strategic, extremely loud, farty-sounding expulsion of air as I walk away — ensuring it’s just ambiguous enough to leave her questioning her sanity, not mine, while she contemplates the aroma.
Diary Entry:
“Dear Diary, managed to avoid public physical altercation with Carol after her unsolicited grief performance review. Resisted the urge to explain the nuances of trauma-informed care and the thermodynamics of exploding heads using a can of chunky soup as a prop, though the urge was strong. Patrick would have found Carol profoundly irritating and would have asked her if she had a medical degree in the human soul or if she specialized in being an utterly clueless pain in the ass. He’d probably have offered her a free ride on his motorcycle, straight off a cliff. I miss his brutal wit. And his willingness to offend. Progress. Glorious, spiteful, popcorn-fueled progress.”
4. THE EXISTENTIAL DREAD THAT HITS ON A RANDOM TUESDAY AFTERNOON (BECAUSE YOUR SOUL FORGOT TO PUNCH OUT OF THE ABYSS)
It’s not always human interaction, is it? Sometimes, Grief Brain just decides it’s time for a solo horror show.
No external triggers. No annoying humans. Just… Tuesday.
And then, without warning, the profound, soul-crushing weight of “What’s the FUCKING point of any of this?” descends like a goddamn shroud. The complete, utter, terrifying meaninglessness of existence without them.
The future stretches before you, a barren, desolate wasteland populated only by tumbleweeds, the echoes of sorrow, and the desperate whimpers of your inner child. And the exhaustion of having to simply be in it is so immense, it feels like a physical pain — like your very bones are dissolving into a puddle of despair.
The Scene:
I’m just sitting there. Doing nothing.
Staring at a wall that suddenly seems to mock my very existence with its stable, unchanging presence. Scrolling endlessly through dog videos that only serve to highlight the profound emptiness of my soul and the agonizing awareness that even fluffy animals have a better grasp on joy than I do.
It’s a random Tuesday. No loud noises. No unexpected phone calls. Just… Tuesday.
And then, the bottom drops out. The void opens. The earth crumbles beneath my feet. My breath catches, and I’m drowning again.
My Internal Scream Room:
[Sound of wind howling through hollowed-out ruins. A distant, mocking chuckle from the universe, accompanied by the faint, chilling whisper of: “You thought you were safe? You thought this was over?”]
“Just breathe, they say. Just keep going. For what?! To achieve what?! Another day of this crushing, suffocating weight?! Another day of battling Grief Brain and the Annoying Humans?!
What is the grand fucking purpose of enduring this agony, this endless torment?! Why am I still here?! Why did Patrick leave me to navigate this goddamn circus alone?!”
Actual Outcome:
I curl into a ball, under a blanket, on the cold hard floor.
I cry until my face feels like a prune and my eyeballs are raw sandpaper. I allow the despair to wash over me, raw and agonizing, like a chemical burn, like liquid nitrogen filling my veins.
I ride the wave, knowing it will eventually recede, leaving me battered, gasping, but still, somehow, breathing.
I remind myself that simply existing, simply enduring, is sometimes the greatest goddamn act of defiance against a universe that wants me to quit.
And then I manage to make a particularly strong cup of cold coffee. And find the goddamn remote. And I just stare at the wall for another hour.
Diary Entry:
“Dear Diary, today was just Tuesday. But Tuesday decided to be an existential terrorist, and Grief Brain decided to join the party. Survived the profound meaninglessness without actually dissolving into a pile of cosmic dust or spontaneously combusting. Patrick would have rolled his eyes at the universe, probably yelled ‘FUCK THIS!’ at the sky, and then gone for a long, impossibly fast motorcycle ride to outrun the despair, leaving me with a note that said ‘Handle it, bitch.’ I miss his ability to outrun despair. And his motorcycle. And his notes. Progress. Horrifying, soul-deep progress.”
SO THERE YOU HAVE IT, YOU BEAUTIFUL, BROKEN, BRILLIANTLY UNHINGED SURVIVORS
Another installment in the ongoing saga of not committing murder.
This is the reality. This is the fight. This is the goddamn daily grind.
It’s not pretty. It’s not neat. It’s certainly not what society wants me to be. But it’s real.
And our ability to navigate it, to find the dark humor in the horror, to keep breathing when every cell in our bodies scream surrender, to keep pushing through the absurdity and the pain – that, my friends, is a goddamn monumental victory.
The Scene:
Us, battle-worn, scarred in places no one can see, staring down another endless day of nonsense.
Society wants our grief wrapped up in Hallmark slogans and Pinterest quotes, but here we are — flipping the bird to all of it, with tear-streaked cheeks, rage still simmering, coffee that tastes like ash, and a laugh that sounds like it belongs to someone who’s two Jack and Cokes past “civilized.”
And yet, we’re still here. Still swinging. Still refusing to let the abyss chew us up without a fight.
Our Internal Scream Rooms:
[Cue sarcastic applause from invisible spectators. The sound of champagne bottles being opened in hell. A slow, mocking golf clap from the Universe itself.]
“Look at you, you twisted miracle of survival. Still not murdering anyone. Still managing to drag your shattered ass through another day. Still finding a way to spit in the face of cosmic unfairness with a laugh that makes strangers edge away from you at Target. That’s power, baby. That’s endurance. That’s the feral, unkillable core of who the fuck you are.”
Actual Outcome:
We keep going. We keep fighting. We keep screaming. We keep laughing — even if it’s jagged, a little manic, and makes everyone around us deeply uncomfortable.
And we keep writing those daily entries into our personal journal of defiance:
“Dear Diary, Today I Didn’t Commit Murder. Progress.”
My Diary Entry:
“Dear Diary, survived another week without unleashing righteous vengeance upon the clueless hordes. Managed to turn existential despair into dark humor. Managed to keep breathing despite my lungs trying to betray me. Managed to look grief in the eye and tell it to fuck itself, at least until tomorrow. Patrick would have called me a lunatic, handed me a shot of whiskey, and told me to get back up because the world doesn’t deserve my surrender. I miss him. I miss his audacity. And I’m stealing both. Progress. Bloody, whiskey-fueled progress.”
So there it is. The world may not understand. But I do.
And that’s all that fucking matters.
See you in the trenches next week, you magnificent, murder-suppressing warriors.
Bring whiskey. Bring your diaries. And remember: the universe may have taken my person, but it sure as hell hasn’t taken my ability to be a glorious, defiant, beautifully broken badass.
Yet.
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