As If My Chest Is Being Ripped Apart

About three months after the death of my father, I was in seminary translating a psalm from Hebrew into English when I began to feel as if my chest was being ripped apart. Before I could scrutinize the feeling, I began to cry. My tears wouldn’t stop; they came with vast sobs. I cried for a very long time.

At some point I began to realize that my sobs were for my father—or, more accurately, my loss of my father. It wasn’t as if I had not mourned him before that moment, I had—and I cried several times. But this time was different. The grief came from what seemed like nowhere and just wouldn’t stop. The psalm I was translating hadn’t brought my father to my mind, but somewhere in my deepest soul the sorrow had built to a crescendo and just had to come out.

After a while I began to realize that my sadness was not for my father but for me—for the feelings of bereavement that I amassed from his death. There was a barrenness within me that was being filled by this sense of loss and it was as if it could/would never be filled. I wanted my father with me at that moment. I wanted the tears to end and a smile—even laughter—to replace them. But that didn’t happen—at least not then.

I write this because I am having the same experience at this moment and I have no idea from whence it comes. I feel empty and alone—as if I have lost something or someone who is very dear to me. I want to scream—but I don’t know what to scream. I don’t discern who or what I am mourning.

I suppose I will just have to allow the feelings/the tears/the sobs to come out. Then maybe—just maybe—I’ll understand.