When the Tears Wouldn't Stop: Surviving the First Days of Grief

By Alison

”It has been said that time heals all wounds. The truth is that time does not heal anything. It merely passes. It is what we do during the passing of time that helps or hinders the healing process.”

– Jay Marshall

When the Tears Wouldn’t Stop: Living Through the First Days of Grief

At the beginning, all I could do was cry. I didn’t know how to stop crying. I didn’t know how to stay strong for my kids. I wouldn’t let go of my youngest son when the EMTs, the coroner, the police, and the investigators were in my house, in the shed, and around my property. I just sat in a chair holding him and crying.

An EMT offered to hold him while I spoke to the investigators, but all I could give them were tears and broken questions and answers. When they weren’t questioning me, I sat in my daughter’s room, pressed against her bed, crying some more.

Occasionally, I would go downstairs—sometimes to see who was still in the house, sometimes to check in on a friend who had come to help with the kids, and sometimes because I was asked more questions. Each time I looked at someone’s face, I cried harder. I could feel their sympathy. I could see the discomfort in their eyes, the helplessness in their silence. Then I would see my children having fun with my friends living life so freely, unphased by the events. I didn’t want to bring them sadness.

The Loneliest Night

That first night was one of the loneliest nights of my life. My daughter moved into my room so that my mother-in-law or my parents could stay in hers. We’d lie in bed and watch Netflix until she fell asleep. She found peace in sleep. I didn’t. After turning off the lights, I’d curl up in the darkness and cry again. I honestly didn’t know if I’d ever stop. I wasn’t eating or drinking much, so I remember wondering how I still had tears left.

Like clockwork, every night the crying would start again as soon as I laid down. This went on for weeks. It was about the only time I had a mental break and alone – where my tears could flow freely. Three weeks, to be exact—until the psychiatrist put me on medication. At first, I thought the medication was a good idea. It dulled the pain and, little by little, stopped me from feeling. No more sadness, no more worry, no more depression. And the tears finally stopped.

Within the first year, my dose was increased three times because I still had anxiety. I didn’t question it. All I wanted to do was forget. Forget what I saw. Forget what I lived through. Forget the life I used to have. Forget the future I thought I was supposed to have.

Shouldn’t I Feel Something?

On the one-year anniversary of his death, we were in our newly remodeled home in Ohio. My family brought over pizza so I wouldn’t be alone. I sat there feeling… nothing. No tears, no anger, no sorrow. Just emptiness. I wasn’t sad. I didn’t miss him. And I hated myself for it.

Shouldn’t I be curled up in my room with a bottle of tequila, bourbon, or whiskey—anything to dull what I was supposed to feel? But I wasn’t. I was just… numb. That’s when I knew: I needed to come off the medication.

Coming off the meds surprised me. I started to feel again—sometimes too much. The tears returned, but so did the healing. I could finally cry when someone asked how my husband died. I could talk about it, even if my voice trembled. I stopped feeling the shame of not hiding my pain. Telling the truth helped me find peace.

I still cried, but not all the time. I started falling asleep without a fight. I started living. Slowly, I felt emotions again—joy, anger, love, sadness, all of it. At first, it felt foreign. But eventually, it started to feel like life.

I still had a long road ahead, and there was still work to do. But I was beginning to understand that I didn’t need to live in the past. I could let go of the “what ifs.” I could cry, and that would be okay. Because healing isn’t about holding it all together. It’s about allowing yourself to fall apart—and then learning how to live again.

The Second Year

As much as I didn’t feel anything the first year – the second year hit me like a ton of bricks. I didn’t ask for the day off work, thinking I was okay. I’d gotten through the first year, so surely I could handle one shift, keep myself busy, distract my mind. No big deal. Right? I was absolutely wrong.

That morning, I woke up crying. I pulled myself together just enough to get the kids ready for school. But on the drive there, the tears came again—quiet, hot, and fast. I managed to hold it together long enough to drop them off, smiling for their sake. And then came the breakdown. Halfway to work, I had to pull over in a plaza parking lot. I couldn’t stop crying. I called in, sobbing, and told them I wouldn’t be coming in. I couldn’t function. I could barely breathe.

Honestly, writing this now is bringing those tears right back—probably because no one really knows this story. I never shared it before, I am not the vulnerable style who speaks about feelings, but I am learning to be more open with my children, so they feel freely to express themselves.

When I finally got home, I crawled straight into bed and stayed there until it was time to pick the kids up. In a weird way, I was relieved that no one from my family offered to come over. I was a walking disaster. I think I needed to be alone in my grief—to hibernate, just for a little while to feel what I didn’t feel the first year.

Over the years, I have learned some days you can put the pieces together and carry on. Other days, like that one, the grief swallows you whole. And that’s okay.