Less because of loss
I was reading my daily grief meditations book last night, and there was a bit about how though we are not grateful for the loss, we are grateful for the hard-won wisdom that came out of that loss. That was important for me to read, because I’ve read similar sentiments in a lot of other grief books about the so-called “gifts of grief.” And as I’ve thought of it, the two have always seem inextricably intertwined, and I knew I could never, ever be grateful for losing A. So how could I be grateful for anything that came from it? I don’t have to be—said so in a book.
That said, I don’t know what wisdom I have to be grateful for, if any. I don’t feel wiser. In fact, I feel like less of a person than I was before A died: less fun, less patient, less helpful, less steady, less kind, less sure, less content, less willing to put myself out, less compassionate. I would say “less optimistic,” but that would imply I still had some optimism left, and I’m not entirely sure I do. The only “more” I’ve got is that I’ve become more negative, more wary, more difficult, more sad, more distant, more insular, more bitter. I’m the me I remember being in my twenties; she wasn’t a lot of fun. Moments when I feel compassion leave me in tears. Is that to the good? How can I know?
There’s a real element of “Why bother investing in people when they can just be taken away?” Two of my three best friends in this world are 55 and 69 respectively. They’re going to leave me, too. It’s not the best way to think, I’ll grant you, but I can’t help myself sometimes.
It’s not that I don’t have enjoyable moments and hours; I do. It’s that I feel like my baseline is so much lower, so much darker, than it used to be. My tongue is sharp, and even if I hold it, my mind is still right there. I am what I abhor: negative, prone to nastiness, apathetic, lazy. And I’m aware that my mask is riddled with cracks; I don’t think I’m fooling those closest to me. I guess I don’t like me very much these days, so I don’t know why anyone else would. Or maybe I just don’t like BEING me these days; that I can say without equivocation is true. I have so much good in my life, more than so many, and yet I’m unable to appreciate it beyond the intellectual level. I can count my blessings easily; what I cannot seem to do is FEEL them, and allow them to bring me the contentment and joy they would under circumstances that don’t include the death of my sweetie.
I don’t know if this is a stage to be lived through, like all the others, or if it’s the threat of my future. Will I stay this way? If this is part of healing, I can take it. But if I’m settling into patterns that will make me increasingly bitter, reclusive, harsh, and sad, I’m concerned. How do I know which is happening? I don’t want to be this way for the rest of my life. But I honestly don’t know where the switch is to send me down another track.