The Primal Nature of Grief

 --> The Primal Nature of Grief



It has been my experience that grief comes in succeeding waves. When I could ride the wave to the crest and express whatever was there, the wave ebbed, and in between the waves I could live for a while. Surprisingly, the intense bouts were relatively short. I don’t think they ever lasted even ten minutes. I learned this important lesson because I happened to be in primal therapy at the time of Sharon’s death. The core thrust of this therapy is deep grief; it was permitted and encouraged. Even so, my expressions were very primitive, because the loss of a child is, well, primal. Primal feelings are wordless, with the intensity of a race car driver’s focus, and almost that loud, like a Formula One car. The wailing and keening has a quality that goes below any thoughts or concepts, more like a wolf howling, that communicates everything without any words. It was a surprise to me that after the grief bout I usually found words and concepts to use with my clients as they struggled to express their feelings. That was a bonus I never expected. People—clients and friends—have often asked me what is to be gained by crying or screaming or any overt expression of distress. Part of the answer is that there develops a continuity and context for all the mysterious stuff we feel and do. Out of the feelings come the answers to the whys. 

This paragraph may seem arbitrary and senseless for today, a bright sunny beautiful day in the mountains.  Thus is the nature of tragedy, it comes out of the blue and the beauty of the day doesn't stop it.

On Being A Sattellite.

On Being A Satellite

I think I have always been a satellite, from birth I never got to be a Shining Star.  I was a preacher’s kid and l grew up in a fishbowl.  So I was always on display as a backdrop to dad’s mission, but never dared to outshine my dad.  In those days all the good pillars of the congregation felt it was their obligation to keep my sibs and me in line. As a result I spent a lot of time being sent to my room till I could behave. And of course any PK knows you have to be a shining example, if not the star.  So I grew up learned in the ways of being my dad’s satellite, adept at deferring and subjugating myself to his stardom.  Then I grew up and married the most articulate man in the word, so I seem doomed to that status.

I realize that it has always been my choice.  So what does one do about deciding to always be a satellite?  Why would I make such a choice?   Well, it turns out that there are some real advantages to being a satellite.  It is a very safe place (one of my familiars), I have a lot of skills and maneuvers that I developed in those growing up places that keep me safe from all that abandonment and shame.  A satellite is not expected to be so good, I get to make mistakes and fail and no one is shocked or surprised.  The pay-off for me has been, much like the moon, I still get to exert great influence from my very safe orbit.  My influence is subtler, like the tides vs. sunshine, but turns out to be as important.

This is coming up now because the requirements have changed in that old safe and familiar place.  I have written this book all by myself, no ghostwriter or anyone else, just me.  Feels really good and even more scary than good.  I do not have the skills or habits to be in the spotlight and don’t have a clue how to do that.  It is also hard to give up my special place of influence as a satellite. 

Stay tuned, you will hear much more about this as I battle with myself to change that decision I made at three.        

Resting on My Laurels

Resting on My Laurels

My mother used to say that to me anytime I did well or accomplished anything.  I’ve been waiting for years to rest on my laurels and I thought for sure that after my book was actually in print I finally could.  Alas and alack, not so now either.  There are many other phrases and statements that mean the same thing, that is just the one I heard a lot.

So, what’s wrong with “resting on my laurels”?  Probably nothing for a day or two, then it becomes a way of hiding out again.  Meaning what?  Well the writing took about eighteen months and the publishing process another six that is two years that I felt very safe and protected.  No one bothered me or said much because I was busy writing.  While the writing was hard, it was always under my control and no one could really check up on me.  That kept me insulated and safe. 

Here I am again having to deal with major change and loss, what a drag.  Now I have to get involved with marketing and distribution.  I have to face whatever people have to say about my book and I am no longer safe.

The form it takes, if I don’t own up to the change, is procrastination and implosion (I’m very good at that).  This is one of those times when the feelings get disconnected from the cause.  I have dealt with many sales people and others that struggle with this after a huge sale.  It is always a surprise and a relief to know why.

Twisted Steel

Twisted Steel

I am a twisted, mangled I-beam; I’ve been through an earthquake and a volcanic eruption.  Here I lay all twisted and broken and still I am needed to hold up the structure.  How can I?  Where is the strength that held my head up high?  Where is the boldness that let me lead others out of the storm?  Where is the soft gentleness that allowed me to comfort?  How do I untwist and make all the pockmarks go away?  Why do I want to, being so broken and destroyed?  The raw, jagged edges abrade my heart and numb my mind.  I am no longer what I was. 

Through the pain, through the darkness, with my soul split in so many pieces -something calls, something calls.  I don’t want to hear, go away, let me go down the jumbled path to my own end - someone calls, someone calls.  Who would call me back from the edge, who would want a person so wretched?

I look down and the ragged, jagged edges of the I-beam are softened by the moss where did that come from?  As I watch I see a little green fern unfurling and I hear soft voices calling my name.  I don’t want to come back, I don’t want to face the pain one more time, just let me rust away here in my safe corner.

How do I get out of this downward spiral?  No one really understands the loss of a child, my anguish is mine, but the green keeps expanding and the voices get louder, more insistent.  I have to make another choice.  It is the power of life calling me up from the dregs, my family my friends all my clients that have hung in also through their own days of flat on the ground. 

I can never repay all the richness of the gifts given me; all I can do is turn around and pass them on.  I am reaching out to you today.  Let’s build a safe place to grieve where we can heal and pass on the gifts to all those other lost, twisted, mangled souls.   

April

April

April is always a difficult month for me. The thirteenth will be the 33ed anniversary of her death and the seventeenth of her burial.  I wonder what this year will demand of me to honor those ever-lonely two days.  I never get to know ahead of time, nor are the remembrances usually exactly on the days themselves.  Some years are harder than others.  I can feel the grief raising as I write.  There is a huge part of me that just wants to hide and not say a word to anyone.  The old messages of “Don’t be a burden”, and “This is a downer” are still strong.

Both of those messages have the ring of truth.  It is a burden to hear someone so sad and it certainly is a downer.  I am personally weary of being a bereaved parent, but that is what I am stuck with, those who care about me are stuck with that aspect of me.  Again it is the list of people I can call on this year.  Actually few seem to mind as they each have their own pain to cope with, and I can return the favor when they need.

Still, it is hard to ask for help even though that is what I do for a living, listen to people in all stages of struggle. 

This year has been one of the easy ones.  As I was thinking what to say in this blog, I was flooded with many sweet and moving memories of her, like some of the cards she made for me or bought for me, she loved me fiercely no matter how bad I was, that is a sweet memory.

On her tenth birthday we went bowling and had a “sleep” over.  What an irreplaceable memory of giggling and screeching way into the night, I don’t know if anyone got any sleep, that is a happy memory.

The way she would run up and give me a big hug, then run off to what ever she was doing. That still moves me deeply.

How do you commemorate those days after so many years?

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.

Loss of the Familiar

Loss of the Familiar

The hardest part of all this change and loss of direction, is not to resort to the old tactics that worked so well to be successful, the strategies to get what I want (need).  Not only do they no longer work they have become counterproductive and they don’t feel right anymore.  As I grapple with these issues I often feel confused and full of despair.  Confusion means old beliefs are breaking down and the despair is because I no longer know what to do to be effective.  The hard part is to not panic and lash out, basically because I’m so scared.  As I sit with this pain, no answers are emerging; trusting that they will is an exercise in self-control.

To actually change how I react and interact with others and my environment is bringing up old hidden, buried feelings.  I don’t like this at all, it is hard to stay the course and not revert to my familiar.  Reinventing me is hard and I am furious that I have to.  It’s so unfair.  Does this sound like a two year old?  So here I am again up against another critical choice, to stay angry and miserable or find a new way.  I think I would rather just manipulate everyone and whine a lot.  Maybe I’ll join Occupy Wall Street and abdicate all responsibility.  I could, but…that brings its own misery and suffering.  What to do?  There is no blue print for this new world, how do I find my way?

Turns out to be a patchwork of back and forth, fits and starts, not always sure I’m making progress.  The change I’m seeking always involves small risks in the present, risks hard enough to be scary, but not so hard that if I fail would be catastrophic.

What keeps me hanging in?  It’s always the nag in my gut,( I have labeled a "niggle") my value of personal responsibility.  If I cave to the old stuff I feel guilt and shame, two very powerful motives.

Arleah