My Grief is like...

My Grief is like…

a lightening storm, with jagged bolts of pain hitting my heart from all directions with no warning, terrifying and feeling helpless in between the jolts., never knowing where or when the next searing pain is coming

a tornado destroying everything in its path, hurling my life every which way, I am out of control, with no place to hide and no escape.

an earthquake, smashing the world into rubble that used to be my life, I wonder how to rebuild myself.

a black hole in my soul that no one can see or hear or touch, but sucks everything in its direction despite my resolve to be strong.

nothing else in life.  Humbling, unsharable, lonely, devastating, life changing,

a build up of pain that overtakes me one way or another, like a Tsunami that overwhelms all my attempts to control myself and brings all my old debris to the surface.

The only way I have found to reduce the intensity of those times is to embrace the bolts, sort through the rubble and hold on tight to those who can tolerate me.

Tolerance for grief in the long haul is an iffy thing.  Everyone, including the bereaved person, tend to forget “what is wrong”, and disappear into business, happy things or internal retreat.  Often shows up indirectly as cynicism and bitterness.

Grief: The Healing Choice

I will never forget April 13, 1978: it was the day I walked into my house and discovered that my fifteen-year-old daughter, Sharon, had died of a drug overdose. Yes, I know that is a difficult sentence to read. And even though I have done so numerous times, it’s also difficult to write. Almost 35 years later, I still can’t look at that particular arrangement of letters and numbers without being mentally transported back to that horrific day.

If you’re a parent, you’ve probably considered what it might be like to lose a child.  (Chances are you quickly pushed the thought away, as it’s too dreadful to contemplate for long. I understand.)  Almost certainly, you suspect that the death of a child is the worst thing that could happen to a parent. How could anyone get over such a loss and resume living a normal life?

The short answer is, you can’t. There is no “getting over” the fact that your beloved child has taken her last breath. But the longer answer is, there is life after a child’s death. Not a life that’s identical to the one you led before—you cross an invisible line and there is no way back—but one that is worthwhile and that contains fulfillment…and sometimes even joy.

There’s a prerequisite, though: to move forward, you must first make the choice to grieve.

That’s right—to a larger extent than many people think, grieving is a choice. Consciously or unconsciously, you can decide to ignore grief when it presents itself: mentally squelching it, postponing it through frenetic activity, and neutralizing it with drugs or alcohol.

But here’s the irony. Not grieving is, in the long run, more painful than the pain you’re seeking to avoid.  It’s widely believed that repressed grief can lead to illnesses like upper respiratory infections, digestive problems and even cardiovascular disease.  This makes sense: the stress and anxiety that come from exerting that much control over your thoughts, emotions, and body are profound. And of course, the potentially dire consequences of self-medication are obvious.

It’s also possible to “shut down” and become stuck in one of the phases of grief.  Even though others may think you seem all right on the surface, the truth is, you have actually “agreed” to stop growing, loving, daring, and moving on in exchange for not feeling any more pain and loss.  Frankly, this is not living. It’s merely existing.

I have healed—and continue to heal daily—after losing Sharon, but only because I have made the choice to grieve. Over the years, I have screamed, cried, vented my rage, and submerged myself in intense waves of grief whenever they washed over me. Over time (and initially to my surprise) I discovered that I was able to enjoy my life once more. I have even found that my appreciation for life, my joy in small delights, and the richness of my relationships have grown.

This may surprise you. It surprised me.  But it’s undeniable: grieving my lost child has opened my eyes to everything lovely and wonderful about our world.  I see, act, and react more authentically. My compassion and gratitude for others has grown, and I stop to smell the roses more often—I call it ‘living from the gut.’ I see this as the “reward” for choosing grief: Once you have descended to the lowest of lows, you are also able to experience new highs, That’s because your soul and psyche are much like a balloon that stretches in all directions.

Be aware, however that grieving is not a linear, predictable process. Its progression and manifestations differ from person to person. You certainly never “finish” grieving. Rather, you must make the choice to grieve over and over again as the years pass.

If you are facing the loss of a child, please, choose to grieve. Yes, there will be darkness, but I promise, you will also come to see the “silver lining” gleaming through.  

Finally, let this truth resonate in your heart: the new life you’re creating would not be possible without the love you felt—and still feel—for your child.  It is her final gift to you.  And accepting it graciously is your final gift to her.

Grief Cannot be Contained

Grief Cannot be Contained

The death of my child was like an 8.0 earthquake on the ocean shelf and the upheaval that followed was the tsunami that destroyed everything I had known, built and counted on.  As the shore cannot contain the ocean waves, neither can the enormity of my grief, or of a spouse’s or of a child’s.

I found myself puzzled, frantic and overwhelmed by my inability to regain control, or get back “to the way things were” I found myself suddenly sobbing and breaking down without my permission and, usually, with little warning, it is hideous. I found myself judging myself as crazy, weird and all manner of negative self-judgments.  All of my inexperience in managing feelings and constant implosions add to the horror of what I face.

Most of all I did not know who or what I am anymore.  Those around me try to help, but cannot because no one can see, touch hear, or smell the destruction.  It is invisible intangible and worst of all, immeasurable.  It is a hole in my soul.

I had very little experience in dealing with such powerful, pervasive, uncontrollable feelings.
 

The most common statements I hear from bereaved folk and asked myself, is, “What’s wrong with me?”  Or “Why can’t I seem to stop crying all the time?”    This is often followed by the statement. “I hate it, I just hate it!  Please make it stop hurting.”

At the end of the day, after all is said and done and all the help has gone home, the black hole of my grief cannot be contained, only expressed.

I wish it were otherwise.

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.

Table of Contents

I just wanted to inclucde this because I don't remember ever saying that this book is about grief in the long haul

Table of Contents

Preface

Acknowledgements

Introduction

Chapter 1

            First Five Years: Chaos and reorienting

Chapter 2

            Ten Years: Realignment and acceptance

Chapter 3

            Fifteen Years: Weariness and shutdown

Chapter 4

            Twenty Years: No one cares; holding up is hard

Chapter 5

            Twenty-Five Years: Silence and loneliness; What more is there to say and do?

Chapter 6

            Thirty Years: Back to the beginning: A renewed sense of purpose and                                     meaning

Chapter 7

            Thirty-Five Years: Continuations; don’t know what else to do; the                                                 relationship with my dead daughter

Chapter 8

            Other Loses

Conclusion

            On the Other Side of Grief

Some Final Notes

Poems

            

1

Sandy Hook

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Sandy Hook

Opens the abyss

Of grief

Pain

Bafflement

The need to know, understand

At the edge of a Black Hole

That eats at our soul

There is nothing we can do,

But there is a lot we can be

I know this journey, back from the edge

Let me be with you, just that

Let the grief come

  Wrenching

    Tearing

      All consuming.

I will walk with you

Into the Black Hole

And you will come back whole

                                                                                                           

The Change Process

The Change Process

As I work with people and they start making connections many clients say, “This is great, now what do I do to change it?”  The answer is always the same; small risks in the present. “ Like what?”, they ask.  Anything that is big enough to make you nervous, but not so big as to be catastrophic if you fail.  Sometimes it is as simple as saying “No” to a request.  The key is how it feels.

You know it’s a risk if the following process ensues.  The process is a series of feelings that everyone goes through as they start to take themselves on.

The first feeling is some kind of implosion, the opposite of explosion. That means you come down very hard on yourself, beating yourself up for being stupid or something.  Many of us are very good at that.

The second set is a very strong sense that something is wrong, or that you have done something wrong.  When I’m in this stage I keep looking at my appointment because the sense is so strong, like I’ve missed an important appointment or something.

The third set of feelings is a sense of impending doom, you just know something awful is about to happen.

What these feelings are related to is the expectation of getting creamed in some old way.  If you could put a child’s words to the sequence it would be along the lines of, “Oops. Uhoh, and now I’m really gonna get it.” As nothing dreadful happens the feelings will dissipate, Then you can take another risk, but not before that sequence is complete.  That part of you we call the child has to see that he/she has lived to tell the tale.