Permission To Grieve

I’m still angry. There are people I am angry at and some of them I am angry at for many years. There are extended family, long time friends, and doctors that I still hold resentment toward. Recently, I wrote a list of all the people I was angry with related to my family’s loss and my resulting grief.

The list was about a page long. I printed the list and studied it. It was clear that things had changed over the years. Most of the people on the list were no longer in my life. Either they died or I discarded them. Or they rejected me. There was only one person on the list that is still in my life and I am working on forgiving that person.

The list made it so clear to me. My life had changed. These people were not in it. That was good. But being angry kept them in my life emotionally. I hadn’t wanted them in my life anymore physically, but I had yet to let go of the old pull of staying angry with them.

They hurt me. They abandoned me. They failed me.

Yes, they did do all those things, but now, my life and my experience depends on me and my attitude. My choices. They don’t have the power to hurt me anymore because I don’t give it to them. But, in staying angry, I give up my own power. Or, my choice for a better life.

It’s hard to let go after losing someone. We get used to wanting to cling on, even to people that we discarded. It’s really not them I have trouble letting go of—it’s their connection to that time in my life. It’s that mistaken belief that if we hold onto our grief, we hold onto our loved one.

But, I saw it clearly on that list. It’s true those people hurt me and failed me. It’s also true that now, I am responsible for my life. Blaming them and staying angry feels righteous but not right. Not anymore.

Copyright 2006-7. Barbara Cole. All rights reserved.

I have passed the survival phase. That dark place where the only thing I have is my will to live. The place where my only obligation was to make sure I was fed, that I did my responsibilities as best as I could. That place of survival was my instinct and my deep desire to live.

Now, I don’t live in survival anymore because I already have survived. I’ve survived losing many family members and the people I trusted and loved. Please don’t ask me how I migrated from survival to this new landscape of vibrant life. I don’t have the answer because there is not one thing I can point to that I did. However, there are many small things that I did. Perhaps these cumulatively helped me get a passport to a new residence of my spirit.

I talked. And talked. Even when no one wanted to listen. Their rejection stung but I talked anyway until they changed the subject or stopped calling. I expressed my feelings in a genuine way in safe places. Sometimes, the only safe place I could find was talking to myself, or talking to G-d. I didn’t bury myself alive by shutting down.

I cried. A lot. I still cry even though it’s many years after my losses. I know that my tears are a physical and emotional release that makes me feel good.

I gave up expectations—that other’s had of me and I had of myself. I stopped judging myself and measuring my progress.

I stopped fighting the pain and let it wash through me.

I felt empathy for myself but I didn’t feel like a victim.

I accepted I was on a journey.

I gave myself Permission to Grieve

Copyright 2006-7. Barbara Cole. All rights reserved.

Why should we bother to grieve? Perhaps this sounds flippant but I mean it seriously. I know first hand the pain that grief brings and the inevitable isolation. So why bother? Why not do what most people do and suppress it? Shut it out or shut it down. It is possible. I’ve done it. I know I could do it again.

You may be thinking, how? Tell me how because I cannot stand one more moment and I will do anything. That’s the key phrase: I will do anything. We sometimes feel that we would do anything to bring our loved one back or have one more conversation or hug. But that is impossible.

The desperation sets in. I would do anything to stop this. I don’t want to feel this. I don’t want to hurt so much. I don’t know how I will ever feel better.

What are the choices? It is possible to stop the pain, to stop feeling. That is easy. There are many substances or things to do to shut down. We all know them. Or at least some of them. There are people in the tabloids doing all of them. Drugs, drinking, shopping, lovers, gambling, cutting (one’s self or hair), eating or not eating….the list goes on and on and on.

So why grieve when I could blunt the pain? Because if I blunt the pain I am killing myself. It may be a slow and unnoticeable death, but it is death just the same. A fast death or a slow death depending on the choice one makes.

To feel the pain, I am alive. To numb my feelings I am denying my life. It is botoxing my emotions—paralyzing them so my wounds don’t show. I didn’t choose the pain. I don’t want the pain. But it is rightfully mine, and if I choose to be fully alive, I have to grieve so that eventually I can live.

Copyright 2006-7. Barbara Cole. All rights reserved.

I’ve written that many people have been uncomfortable around me as I have expressed my sorrow. I’ve seen this to be true throughout my life when I experienced different losses.

Again, it goes back to the “get over it” mantra because there is a certain amount of time where although others are uncomfortable, they will tolerate my expression, my tears, my fears, my emptiness, or sadness.

We know that the frequency and intensity of the expression changes over time but throughout our lives this will continue. Yes, that is a given. There is no cure for loss.

But, there is some moment when others don’t want to hear it out of their discomfort. Early on, they supress it to be comforting or supportive. But once they feel enough time has passed, rather than say this makes me uncomfortable, they shame others to stop talkin.

I think it is because they are uncomfortable with their feelings, and we are a mirror for them. We reflect what they don’t want to feel or remember at any cost.

And, also, our culture does not allow for the expression of sorrow over time. Tears are to be hidden, a mask applied like makeup, and a happy face to be shown to the world.

I believe people feel like a voyeur witnessing the sorrow of the bereaved–like they are peeking into a private world that should not be seen.

Yet, ironically, our culture is extremely voyeuristic when it comes to poking into the private lives of those who are in the public eye or drugging or drinking or cheating. There is nothing sacred that the tabloids and now mainstream publications won’t reveal and expose. Watching and listening has made us comfortable as a voyeur of sordid experiences and peoples lives.
Again, we don’t know them and we chide them or mock them….but our culture has become comfortable being a voyeur of those who have brought catastrophe or calamity upon themselves.

Ah, but those who are just every day people feeling appropriate sorrow that lasts for many years? Oh no, we can’t see that as a culture…because there is nothing to do to fix it. There is no rehab or jail or no way to make ourselves as an audience feel better or superior.

Seeing a person in sorrow and pain requires someone to rise up to a level of compassion and intimacy. The journey is too far for many.

One day after living in the tunnel of grief for a long time, I considered walking out but I was frightened. Like a prisoner in solitary confinement I wanted to leave but when the door was flung open, the sunlight was blinding. I didn’t want to leave this place of deep grief.

When I was caring for Mom the payoff was clear even if it was restricting my life. I had lots of people telling me what a wonderful daughter I was. I wasn’t so wonderful, I was just experienced. I knew from my past that unfinished business was a recipe for years of guilt. I bought an insurance policy against future guilt by being Mom’s caregiver.

Now I was out of the caregiving jail of suffering and ongoing medical crises but I created a new prison fro myself. I was free to live my life but I was paralyzed. All I had to do was walk outside into the world of possibilities but my feet wouldn’t move. The world felt too big. The truth was I had gotten comfortable in my small life because it was familiar and if I opened the door I would have to face that I was alone.

Questions:
• Do you find it hard to move out of the deep guilt?
• Is it scary to let go of the caregiver role?
• What payoff do you get from being the “good one”?

Themes:
• Fear of grief changing
• Comfort in hiding under grief

Sorry for not giving earlier notice.

There is a Permission to Grieve workshop tomorrow in NYC if you would like to attend.

Saturday, February 2nd
4pm
Starbucks 54th and 1st Avenue