More thoughts on Sandy Hook

Sandy Hook

As A Grief Center

As I listen and read to people’s suggestions as to what to do with Sandy Hook School, all the ideas seem sound and intellectually acceptable.  And, yet…and yet, my gut keeps saying turn Sandy Hook into a Grief Center.

What does that mean exactly?  It means, leave everything as it is and let the parents and their families go there when they need to , choose to, or not.   The gut behind the move is that if this were my child that had been murdered, I would be drawn to the last place my child was alive like a magnet.  Never mind the blood and whatever else, that would be MY child’s blood and the place that child last lay.  It is all I would have left and that would be precious to me.

Most people want to clean it up and, perhaps turn it into a shrine or memorial.  I feel it deserves a more living response then the usual antiseptic nonsense

A place to go and shake my fist at the forces that permitted this, and then scream, cry, get up and go on, as life demands.  The greatest gift to me during the beginning of my journey was the place and permission to keen and wail.  The nice thing about turning the school into a grief center is that no one would need to monitor the parents need to grieve.

I hope these parents get that gift.

Arleah on the Taboos against Grieving

Grief is one of those words that puts fear in the hearts of grown men. Women can cry, but they struggle with grieving, which has to do with the injunctions females hear about selfishness and upsetting others. It is forbidden for males to cry. Years ago I had about seven men in my practice who all sounded alike in their struggles and fears—so much so that it was eerie. I thought they would benefit from a group. They all agreed and we started to work that way. About six weeks into the group, each man took me aside and, in his own way, said, “I will do anything you ask, just don’t make me cry.”

The restrictions against grieving are numerous and powerful, and start very early in the socialization of children. I think that those taboos are there because the art of grieving changes a person, from one state of existence to another, like boiling water into steam. But steam can be condensed back into water; the change in people is irreversible and permanent. I am awed by the powerful taboos against grieving. I know about this from my work with people and my own struggles to grieve openly.

People have often expressed a deep, abiding fear that if they start grieving they will never stop—or worse, just be stuck in a funk. I have never worked with a person who didn’t continue with his or her life as usual while going through this healing process. I have deep respect for those who make that choice. I see how much strength and courage it takes to be that vulnerable and exposed.

What I would like to see happen with this book is the creation of safe places for people to grieve without being interrupted or scolded. The only partially safe place is a cemetery. It would be nice to bring back the notion of the ancient wailing wall. The only thing I have ever experienced that even comes close to what I would hope for is the Vietnam Veterans Memorial Wall in D.C. Loved ones are permitted to bring little memorials and at least weep quietly. I would wish for every bereaved person a safe place for deep, healing grief and reflection, in the daunting work of rebuilding a life.