Support
It seems I’ve gone back to the well, purchasing a second wave of grief-related books. I’ve amassed quite the library already, and I have to say that these books have been my greatest support during this time. There are many of them, they understand, and they’re always there when I need them, no questions asked. They DO know what to say. They do not grow tired of my grief, or pretend that I’m fine. What I like about them is that they validate my feelings, up and down as they are. One of my latest is the last book Elisabeth Kubler-Ross wrote before she passed on herself, called On Grief and Grieving, written with David Kessler.
Any study of death and grief brings up her name, because she literally wrote the book on death, the first one, on a subject largely ignored out of fear and mistaken paternalism towards those who were dying. Her 5 stages of grief have been bandied about in popular culture ever since, with various degrees of understanding and misinterpretation. People have recommended her book to me, but the original book was about people who were themselves dying, not those who were grieving. Not that there isn’t a grief in facing your own impending mortality; that’s just not where I am or what I need. So when I saw that she, with a writing partner, had written a book about grief, the culmination of her life’s work as she herself was dying, I decided to give it a try. I’m glad I did.
It reminded me that the stages are not linear, or even stand-alone, and they look different in a griever than they do in one dying, which I knew, and is why I chose not to read the original book. It reminded me that the up and down, the shifting in and out of the emotional turmoil of grief is not only natural, but self-preserving, and that we do so to allow us to handle the broken pieces of our hearts carefully, tenderly and without making ourselves bleed more. When we’re dealing with grief, it means we’re strong enough to do so; when we’re not, it means we’re not, and there’s nothing to worry about either way. You’re best off just to roll with it. It made me see that I have come a long way, in that I have more perspective after these 6 months, allowing me to nod along with what they say in the book, rather than fight against it. Like when it talks about regrets, it talks about how everyone is going to have regrets, no matter how well we tried to live and love with our loved one, and that we did the best we knew how to at that time in our life. I can nod my head and say “I did. I really did.”
And that was all in the first 2 chapters.
I thought I was past my need for grief books, because I’d read so many, and went through a period where I just wanted to read something else. So I did. I took a break from the grief analysis, even if a break from the grief wasn’t possible. But I’ve felt myself needing more support again since I got back from camp, and I think I’m ready for another round of therapy, as it were.
I particularly like what the authors have to say about depression, as they distinguish between clinical depression and the depression resulting from grief. Death and loss IS depressing, and to not feel depressed by it would be unusual. And yet the whole world is impatient with depression. In our society, no one is allowed to feel bad, and if they do, they’re self-indulgent at best, and ill at worst, requiring drugs and anything that will make them stop feeling in this unacceptable way. That is not to say that drugs have not been lifesavers for people. But I think they are too often prescribed as a quick, superficial fix for problems with deep roots, even by mental health professionals who agree that the grief as a result of bereavement is the most difficult and profound emotional experience human beings can go through. But here, take these drugs and feel better.
I feel better when I feel better. It happens frequently, as a matter of fact. For the most part, I can hold the loss within me and not break apart from the strain of it. And when I’m feeling down, I’m not being self-indulgent or wallowing. My beloved died. Good lord, how on earth should I feel? Is it any wonder that it continues to affect me? Even if people cannot understand the depths of the griever’s experience, just at face value, knowing someone had lost someone they loved would be enough motivation for me to give them all kinds of slack and understanding, even if I couldn’t imagine what it was like (which would be a blessing).
People want to talk about “acceptance,” as the final stage of grief, and that acceptance means that you’re all better. Acceptance requires no such happy ending. And that’s another thing I appreciated about this book is that it says as much. No one is ever okay with losing someone they loved very much. Acceptance does not require you to be pleased with the outcome. Acceptance is saying “Yes, this happened to me. This loss is now a part of my life story, and will affect my life in ways I might not even be able to imagine yet, and forever after,” and doing the best you can to live life in, around, and through that truth. That’s what people don’t get, I think. Acceptance doesn’t mean I’m going to be happy and delighted all the time now. Hell, I wasn’t happy and delighted all the time before, and now that I have the perspective of what loss and pain REALLY look and feel like, all the stuff that brought me down in the past seems so small.
I know people who get frustrated over their software not working, and bummed about their favorite sports team losing a game and annoyed by traffic. And they’re entitled to that; I can’t tell them it’s invalid to feel that way. But I find it hard to swallow that someone can get upset and angry for the rest of the evening because someone cut them off in traffic, and yet wonder why I’m “still” moping” about losing a true love, why I still want to talk about it. They’ll drive again, and maybe have better luck, but my sweetie’s not coming back.
My books understand.