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.

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.

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

                                                                                                           

A Deep Blue Christmas

A Deep Blue Christmas: Dealing with Extreme Grief at the Holidays

For those who’ve recently lost someone they deeply loved, this is the season of struggles.  Here are some short tips on how to grieve when the world is trimming trees and singing carols

While it’s hard to quantify grief, to say ‘my loss trumps your loss,’ we all know there are losses that sadden and there are losses that devastate.   The first Christmas or Hanukkah after a devastating loss—really any ‘first’ without the loved one—can be almost unbearably painful. The holidays create idealized expectations that can’t possibly be met. For those experiencing extreme grief, this time of year isn’t just a let down; it’s a painful reminder of what you no longer have. I remember being so angry that first Christmas because everyone was laughing and sharing and I had to visit my child at the cemetery.

If you’re suffering from extreme grief, here are some tips on how can you survive the holidays.

Break down when you need to break down. (Yes, even in the middle of the office Christmas party.) Grief doesn’t always arrive at convenient times, but it should not be squelched. Find a bathroom or go outside, but cry and scream if you have to. 

Never fake it, “Never soldier through it. Only by “riding the waves” of grief, even when makes others uncomfortable, can you ever begin to heal.”

If you feel like going to the holiday event, go. If you don’t, don’t. “Grief ebbs and flows, and often after a period of intense crying you will feel okay for a while,” says Shechtman. “If you’re in an ‘ebb’ and think you might enjoy Candlelight service, then go. Take grief as it comes.”

Forget seasonal “obligations.” Take care of yourself first.  “If you just can’t show up for a holiday dinner, it’s okay,” says Shechtman. “If you can’t face shopping for your grandchildren, don’t. They have too much stuff anyway! Those who care about you will understand.”

When you need to, call someone on your “List of 10.” Historically, extreme loss was handled in the context of family, friends, church and community. In our current culture families are scattered and fragmented and communities and churches have been devalued. That’s why Shechtman suggests cobbling together a list of 10 people you trust who agree to be there when you need them—even at 2 am.

“After Sharon died I would call the people on my list, one by one, to see if they were up to my grief at the moment,” she says. “Grief requires comfort, a hard thing to keep asking for.”

Find a way to honor your lost loved one during the holidays.  Hang a stocking for her.  Prepare his favorite meal. Do something meaningful to bring the person’s presence into the holidays.

“These rituals help you process the loss rather than trying to squelch or deny it,” says Shechtman.

Do something that brings you pleasure or comfort.   It doesn’t have to be holiday related.  Go for a snowy hike, or visit a spa, or pet cats at the local animal shelter. The fact that you’re grieving doesn’t mean you can’t enjoy life.

“This last point is the hardest to believe, but it’s true,” notes Shechtman.  “You’ll think, ‘I’ll never be happy again.’ You will.  Maybe not this Christmas or Hanukkah. Maybe not next year. But eventually, you will.

“Making the choice to grieve—and it’s one you must make again and again for the rest of your life—expands your capacity for joy and brings new richness to relationships,” she adds. “If nothing else sustains you this holiday season, hold on to this. Life will never been the same, but it will be good again.”

The Grief Journey

Arleah on the Grief Journey

Over the years, the requirements of my grieving have waxed and waned, but there is always some demand to acknowledge several important dates. The honoring no longer has to be long or dramatic; it just has to be addressed. The relationship I have developed with my daughter over the long haul feels peaceful and bittersweet. I keep the grief in my pocket and take it out from time to time, but it no longer rules my life. It has been a gradual process of choices that have built up over time, like a coral reef. Each individual animal—or choice, in my case—is small and insignificant, but the sum total is breathtaking, though invisible on the surface. By now there is little drama left, and less and less to say. All the building and changes are under the surface. A reef and the human spirit are both easy to shatter, but both are also resilient and tend to rebuild in changed forms. Many other losses have occurred along the way, each with its own pain and recovery. Nothing comes close to the upside-down, inside-out world that the death of my child wrought. What is breathtaking is the healing.