When Grief Takes Over My Voice

Sometimes it's not me talking.

It's the grief.

I can tell because everything comes out wrong. Sharp. Tired. A bit off.

I say things I don't fully mean. My reactions come fast. Too fast.

Then I pull back, even when nothing is actually happening. I don't know, I don't even know why I do that. It just shows up.

Yesterday, I was standing in line and something shifted. The scanner kept beeping and someone behind me pushed their cart forward and the wheel let out that sharp squeak.

For a second, I wasn't there anymore.

I was back in a place I don't go, that sound again, metals, a scream I can't forget.

My hands started shaking. I couldn't hold the handle right. I had to stop and just stand there, breathing through it, even though I knew it was a panic attack.

I tried to act normal.

Someone asked if I was okay.

I said something, I don't even remember what, but it didn't feel like me, because in that moment I wasn't fully back yet.

And most days I still let it drive. I don't know how to take the wheel back yet.