Beginning the Phases of Grief

The troupe has suffered a terrible loss. The funeral was held today and as I'm very much on the other side of the ocean, I was unable to attend. When I opened my e-mail this morning, my inbox was flooded.  Every single message was a message of condolence, or a link to a newspaper article, a poem in memory of... And I can't take it.

I've been here sitting in denial, far removed from the painful scene in France. I'll be thrust into it on Sunday and needless to say, I'm not looking forward to it.

Right now, I think I'm in denial. Maybe that's why I can't bear to look at all those messages and images. Of course I was shocked by the news, but I guess I took it like he was just leaving the show. That he was still somewhere, just somewhere where I wouldn't see him again. Now it feels more like he's just pulling the same stupid shit he always pulled. The show started but he was asleep in his caravan, or he left his phone on backstage during a show...

Little by little I'm realizing that isn't the case. When we get to Toulouse, someone will have to clean out his trunk. I can't imagine what B, the alternate for the role played by my departed cast mate, must be feeling. To know that he'll no longer be filling in from time to time, but taking over completely. To go on stage in the dead man's costume...

And D... for me she has the least enviable task of all. The show is about art and representation. We all had exceptionally realistic masks of ourselves made for the show. She wears his mask. It's waiting for her in her trunk. That thought chills me to the bone and leaves me haunted by the idea of death masks.

I know it will be good for us all to grieve collectively. But I had such a terrible relationship with this man. I have no good memories of him. And the few that I have from the very beginning, before things spiraled out of control, they're all tainted by what came next.

I'm afraid that when I land back among the troupe, my grief won't be enough for them and that I'll come off as some horrible bitch. To fake anything more than I'm feeling would be heartless and disrespectful. But I know that everyone talks about everyone else, and I can't help but feel that certain people among those who are suffering this loss the hardest will need something or someone to take out their anger on. Our mutual dislike was no secret. And maybe my paranoia stems from guilt, but I can see how I would make an excellent Whipping Boy.

Or maybe what I'm most afraid of is discovering that I do have genuine grief, that those good memories of the friend I once had are still there somewhere, and that all the anger and resentment that I've had bottled up for the past three years will finally give way to forgiveness.