One minute you are enjoying the comfort of your own existence, naively unaware of all the possible disastrous and horrendous things that could disrupt your comfort. The next minute everything comes crashing down around you, and the unthinkable happens. Everything goes from ordinary to chaotic. That’s how shock works. He comes at the most inconvenient time and stuns you into a terrible silence.
Shock is the initial and most natural response to grief, particularly after a sudden loss or traumatic event. When we learn of tragedy, the brain and central nervous system immediately take over. They cover our emotions with a protective “blanket” known as shock. Shock, also referred to as the trauma membrane, allows us to function in our lives without feeling severe pain.
I was at home when it happened. When my mother pulled me into the kitchen and whispered the horrific news in my ear with tears streaming down her face. That’s when I heard the pounding at the front door. A violent rhythm that threatened to knock down the entire wooden frame, hell, maybe even the entire house. It was an uninvited and unwelcome presence. But, everyone knows that Shock arrives much like an unwanted guest, with his own agenda.
I anxiously open the door, half-expecting to find nothing more than the sliver of world that exists just beyond the reach of my front door. But, instead, a wild-eyed and disheveled being stood before me, pressing himself into my space as though he's been waiting an eternity to invade my life. He doesn’t bother to say “excuse me” or offer any warning; he simply barges right through me. Within seconds, his invisible force consumed me. I felt his merciless fingers wrapping around me, draining all the warmth from my body. My breath stalled in my lungs, caught somewhere between disbelief and incomprehension. My entire body stopped functioning under the weight of my heavy heart, and suddenly I couldn’t understand why my body was sprawled against the cold floor.
The emotional and physical responses to shock are also linked to changes in neurotransmitters, the chemical messengers in the brain that regulate mood, emotions, and physiological functions. In the immediate aftermath of loss, the brain’s neurotransmitter activity is likely to be out of balance, contributing to the sense of disconnection and emotional overload. Those who have experienced shock often report feeling a strange sense of “unreality,” a numbness and distortion of time and space.
With a blurry gaze I saw how Shock was a tall and lanky being, with unproportionally long arms and bony legs. Completely pale and borderline ghastly in complexion, if I looked close enough I could faintly make out the green and violet colored veins beneath his skin. Shock had wide and hollow eyes, with permanently raised brows that forced wrinkles all around his face.
The world, once uncomplicated and structured, suddenly felt so fragile, like at any minute the whole thing could disintegrate. My eyes were seeing reality through a blurry lens, distorting fact from fiction, leaving me a spiraling mess. Shock left me living outside of time itself, leaving me stranded in some place where nothing made any sense.
Shock is not a permanent state but rather a transitional phase that provides the necessary space for the mind and body to begin processing the reality of loss. For some, shock recedes very quickly. For others, shock can last for days or even weeks. Everyone is different and there is no right or wrong way to experience shock.
I was forcefully dragged into a new chapter of life that day. A chapter that started the day that my best friend’s life ended. I was hopelessly grasping at the previous pages, wanting to re-read the memories of her, but Shock ripped them right away. Leaving me beyond distraught when the pages began to turn.
After the intrusion, Shock refused to leave my side. It didn't matter where I went or how hard I tried to ignore him, Shock’s persistent shadow lingered over my head. He circled around me in the dark hours, taunting me, mocking me and my misery. His presence was so palpable that I could feel him on every inch of my skin and in every crevice of my body.
Shock can feel like emotional chaos. The impact of shock can affect one’s ability to make sense of the world or even rebuild a sense of normalcy after the loss. Though it may initially offer a necessary buffer against the pain, it is important to work through this stage with patience, allowing the person to process the loss at their own pace.
Shock was a living contradiction, because no matter how much I could feel him wavering over me, he was still so intangible that I could never fully catch him. At first, Shock was all-consuming, consistently suffocating me with his overwhelming and punishing presence. Like the air I was breathing was in fact thick, grey smoke that left my entire body on fire. Leaving me incapable of doing anything but staring into the void and letting my thoughts wander too far. But as the days bled into each other, he would shift and change, never truly gone, just slipping in and out of my awareness.
Sometimes, he would seize me in a moment when I would hear a familiar voice, see a place she loved, or feel a memory flicker like a dying light. And then, for a moment, Shock would overwhelm me again—the shock of what I had lost, of what had been stolen from me without any warning.
Other times, Shock retreats, leaving my mind in an emptiness that seems somehow worse. The absence of grief, when Shock abandoned me, felt almost more unbearable than the grief itself. Shock does not comfort or heal, he just simply exists, a cruel reminder that something unimaginable had shifted in my life, and that I cannot return to what was. Shock’s visits would soften over time, like an uninvited guest packing up their bags and leaving, but even after he was gone, his mark would linger. Shock is there in the small, quiet spaces, embedded in the corners of my mind, a shadow that never truly fades. For once you’ve tasted the sting of Shock’s touch, you will never quite be the same again.