You wonder into which stage of grief Kubler-Ross would classify “Don’t Give a Fuck.” A friend suggests anger or depression.

You don’t care about anything, even the things you usually care about. You don’t care that you don’t care except that you must show up for work, you must prepare for class, you must grade assignments, you must keep appointments, you must write this paper. You must go through motions.

The first day back to work and not caring becomes anger. You keep thinking “I can’t do this I can’t do this I can’t do this,” but you know you can. You just don’t want to.

You resent work so much you cannot see straight. You do not want to blame any person because everyone has been so compassionate. You do not want to turn this on students because they had nothing to do with this and you surprise yourself with the genuine affection that you feel for them. Still, you resent some vague shape sitting in the space occupied by work because this responsibility called you back for those last two weeks that you wanted to stay with your dad. “I was not essential here,” you seethe. “A hundred people within a twenty mile radius could have stepped in.” All the way to school you shake with resentment. You tremble with hatred at yourself. Then, it cracks and sadness pours over you.

You walk through the day dazed. “How is your semester going?” asks a colleague who does not know. “How are you?” asks a favorite student who does not know. “How are you doing?” ask people who do know. You haven’t figured out the proper way to answer. “Well, my dad died. I have no idea how you are supposed to respond to that nor how I expect you to respond to that, and this is really unfair of me to just drop this on you so I’m sorry and pretend that I said nothing and anyway how are you?” Two days later, you can automatically say, “just fine and you?” The lie tastes like ashes in your mouth. You hate yourself for how easily it comes. At least you don’t have to take care of the other person’s feelings.

The act of teaching takes you into a different part of your head. The focus on the subject, the interaction with students, the performance, all give your body a break. You feel relief. You notice you feel relief. Your relief feels like betrayal.

You cannot find that same space outside of class, nor do you want to. The next teaching day you actually feel good in class, almost chipper. You feel numb for the rest of the day. People ask you how you are, express their condolences, and you feel as if they are asking about someone else, about something that did not happen. Everything takes place outside of a glass bubble. At the end of the day, the bubble breaks. The wailing takes a life of its own, separate from yours, a banshee ripping its way out of your guts.

There are two groups of people. Those who have been through this loss and those who dread it. You love both for their sympathy. Still, this is your grief to experience and you know exactly what you want and need. Going back to work right now will not help because work stalls the motion of your mourning and aggravates the anger. You want to wallow in this experience. You want to transform and learn from it. Teaching a class, writing a paper, routine: these things waste this well of emotion, divert this potential for contemplation and expression. They prevent profound transformation. They become the real denial, distancing yourself from this one last connection with your dad.

Don’t Give a Fuck contains the deep sadness and apathy of depression, but it is not Depression. You do care about creativity, thought, action, other people, and perhaps more so than usual; but you do not care about them in the usual ways. They do not express themselves as they did before. When you say “I give zero fucks about this,” what you really mean is that your usual daily life has little meaning to you right now; meaning lies elsewhere and your anger targets anything that keeps you from exploring that elsewhere and from going through this — oh, there must be a word for it and you just cannot find it. You want the space, not forever, just for now, for a few intensive months at first with decrescendo through the year.

You want to “take your broken heart and turn it into art.” About that, you really do GAF.