Grief

I write about loss and grief on the regular, but not necessarily in a public way. Now feels like a time to do so.

Please note that I have no solid answers on processing grief. We all feel and react to grief and loss in our own way. There is no “right way” to grieve.

Initially for me, grief felt like a giant cavity in the center of my chest. No matter what I threw in, nothing would fill it. And I tried everything. Well, except hard drugs. My line on those when I was a late teen was, “My life is so f-ed up already. Why would I make it any worse by trying something like that?” It seemed to hold me up against any peer pressure. Not that there was much. Mostly, my fellow high school seniors left me alone. My attendance at social functions was not exactly welcomed. And I don’t blame my peers. How to do you cope with a friend who is grieving the loss of her mother? Grace, I would argue. Lots of forgiveness and grace. But when you are 17, those are often in short supply. We all had a lot of shit to deal with as seniors. I don’t fault anyone for excusing themselves from my tragedy.

Early on, I would wake up in the morning and feel happy. And then it would hit me. My mom is gone. The happiness dissipated like morning fog on a warm day. Numbness would take its place. How do I get from point A to point B today?

I tried making deals with myself. Find five reasons to get out of bed. As the months went by, that dwindled. Find three reasons. Find a single reason. More often than not, my reason was an external pressure. I have an AP English paper due. I need to do well on my Prob and Stat quiz so I don’t get a bad grade in math so I can get into college and get the hell out of town. I have a rehearsal tonight that I can’t attend unless I spent at least half the day in school.

I created schedules for myself that were borderline crazy with detail. Get to school at 6:45 am. Visit my choir teacher at 6:50 to see if there was anything to do for the choir service organization -- I was president. Seven a.m. -- let me ask my English teacher what his comment meant on my last paper. Ten after seven - -maybe my creative writing teacher wants to see this extra piece I wrote last night while I was avoiding government homework. Go to my locker. Slide into my seat just before the first bell rings.

I did everything I possibly could to remain out of my house after school. If I wasn’t cast in a play or musical, I volunteered to do programs or help build the set. I was the first one in line to help anyone. If I overheard that a group of people was heading out to eat, I found a way to join in, asking underclassmen if they needed a ride.

I found solace in food, as many people do when faced with grief. I ate Quarter Pounders with cheese and drank milkshakes. I took Slim Fast shakes to school for lunch and chased them with Hostess cupcakes. I ordered pizza and ate past the point of fullness. I ate pints of ice cream in one sitting. In the decades since, it has taken me hours of self-awareness and self-forgiveness to shake the disordered eating that I began in high school.

I also found solace in performing. The roles I was assigned gave me safe spaces to step outside of my body and mind. The music ringing in my ears drowned out the thoughts that haunted me day and night. How do I find a way out? How do I keep my body from exploding? How do I keep these feelings from eating me alive?

I was sent to therapy, but I wasn’t ready for it yet. It wasn’t my decision to go, so I didn’t work. I could have benefited from medication to help me cope with the intense depression, but that wasn’t offered as a solution.

I didn’t know how to ask for what might have helped. What if someone had said to me, “This is not your problem alone to deal with”? But I was told that no one else in my immediate family was suffering and that I alone was having “issues.”

Some of my peers treated my mom’s funeral and Shiva as a time to socialize. As a result, I felt like an outcast during one of the hardest weeks of my life. It’s uncomfortable to go to funerals. No one knows what to say. It’s okay to say, “I don’t know what you must be feeling right now. But I am here for you.” But only say it if you will truly be there for that person. Don’t go to the funeral because everyone else is going.

From time to time, check back in with the person who is grieving. Some may hate being reminded of their grief. Try to get a read on their reaction. But for others, like me, there were so many offers of support initially, when I was just numb and couldn’t express what I needed. But the support fell away as everyone moved on with their lives. And that was when I needed it most. Think about the places and events when you most feel the presence of your parents or loved ones. Concerts. Performances. Graduation. Mother’s or Father’s Day. Birthdays. Holidays. Anniversaries of deaths. Loved ones’ birthdays. These are days when it can be hard, even years later.

I have learned that by having a plan, I can channel my emotions in ways that don’t destroy me. On my mother’s birthday or anniversary of her death, I try to find things to do that she would have loved. Eating ice cream. Planting flowers. Visiting art museums. I came to this practice very late, but it has been helpful. If you are helping a teen work through grief, consider making a plan together. How can we remember your loved one? What would they have loved doing? Let’s do it.

One of the biggest things I learned was not to fear or suppress the intense emotions I felt. This learning would come much, much later in my life, after years and years of therapy. Contrary to what you might think, feeling your emotions will not cause you to lose your mind or become unhinged. Fear, anger, and sadness hurt. There is no getting around it. But you are strong enough to feel those emotions and come out on the other side. Trust yourself.

I remember being so scared of my immense sadness and anger. I kept trying to push it down and away. But one day, I figured out that I am strong enough to feel those feelings. They are just feelings. They can’t hurt me. So I let them in. I felt sadness so strong, it hurt to breathe. I felt anger so white hot that I could have punched through a wall. I cried so hard and so long, it looked like I was having an allergic reaction to an expensive face cream.

Eventually, the tears stopped. I could get a deep breath. And I felt better. So the next time grief felt overwhelming, I felt safe to feel those emotions again. It only takes one time to trust that you will come through the other side. Once you do, you know that you can do it again. If you allow yourself to feel your emotions when they crop up, in a safe space, they become less intense. I’m not saying they go away. I don’t know that grief ever truly goes away. But it becomes a little easier to catch your breath: “This is grief. This is sadness. I’ve felt it before. It is incredibly painful. I’ll feel it again. It means I’m alive and the person I’m grieving meant something to me. It’s okay.”

I now have a 30-year perspective on a single loss—a singular loss that changed my life forever. I still feel angry when I think of all the things I missed out experiencing with my mother. That anger drives me to create experiences with my own kids—things I would have done with her that I can instead do with them. I still feel sad. I mourn her absence as my children hit milestones.

But I’m no longer afraid of the anger and sadness. They are as much a part of me as my brown hair and wide hips. Sometimes I notice them, and sometimes, I only have a passing awareness of their existence. Their presence now spurs me on to take advantage of the life I have been gifted—a life that has extended beyond my mother’s 44 years.

Onward…