As part of an ongoing series, Mayim is chronicling her journey through the year of mourning following her father’s death in April 2015. For previous pieces in this series, click here.

Grief, she is heavy. It feels like I carry her around with me like a 30-pound weight.

She is carried on my back, though. So I can’t see her. I can’t get at her when she weighs on me. She’s just there, a part of me, dragging my body down and making me feel small. Low to the ground. And like I am walking through mud just to get to the bathroom in the morning to brush my teeth or to my car to go get groceries or to pick up my son when he is crying. She is on me all of the time.

Grief has taken hold of my communication skills and she has thrashed them.

I had trouble keeping up with friends before my dad died because I am busy and have trouble managing everything just because I am me.

Now, it feels like Grief is mocking me, finding new ways to hurt me. I can’t keep up with emails. I can’t seem to get on the phone with people I love to talk to. Days go by, weeks. I miss important things. I lose important events. Birthdays. Illness in other people’s lives. I keep missing things.

The days escape me. I cannot figure this new me out.

My mom has had trouble too, so I know I am not alone. I compare my Grief to hers as if to compare a dream to waking life. Is this real? Am I really experiencing this? Is he still dead? Is the bad dream over?

It is not. The fears of a child – to not lose a parent – are the new reality. This is the waking experience.

And so I pray that friends will understand. And grant me understanding. This is me now.

Grief, she is heavy.