I’ve been wallowing in a funk lately. Not sure how to untangle the threads of grief from those of depression, dissatisfaction, and confusion stemming from my own situation and that of the world. It all feels inexorably knotted together into one giant ball of misery.
I first came to the Grieving Room more than four years ago, after my dad died. We were very close, and I still miss him. But his death was more than just the loss of a parent, and probably the most influential person in my life. It was the catalyst that set off a chain of events in my life that have led to a dizzying series of changes, to other painful losses, and to a still-evolving sense of self.
A special welcome to anyone who is new to The Grieving Room. We meet every Monday evening. Whether your loss is recent or many years ago, whether you have lost a person or a pet, or even if the person you are "mourning" is still alive ("pre-grief" can be a very lonely and confusing time) you can come to this diary and process your grieving in whatever way works for you. Share whatever you need to share. We can't solve each other's problems, but we can be a sounding board and a place of connection.
Even after all this time, I enjoy coming here on Monday evenings—supporting others going through their own journeys and gaining insights from so many wise diarists and community members. But at times I feel stuck—like I’m not getting anywhere. Like every step forward I take is accompanied by two or three steps back. It's very frustrating. I'm a problem-solver by nature, but this one doesn't seem to respond to logic or sheer force of will. I’d like to find the magic key that would move me beyond my perpetual navel-gazing and catapult me out of my own personal negative feedback loop. I’d like to have a flash of insight that could speak to me, and maybe be of value to the other members of this community. Unfortunately, that's not in the cards tonight.
When I volunteered to host a diary, I didn't have any particular topic in mind, nor is this date particularly significant to me, so I struggled to write something that would serve as more than an Open Thread. Fortunately, the internet came to my rescue. I recently ran across a piece in my Facebook feed that interested me, and hopefully may speak to someone else, as well.
Anne Lamott, one of my favorite authors, has written a new book about grief. Entitled “Small Victories: Spotting Improbable Moments of Grace,” the book is a collection of essays written by Ms. Lamott, all touching on some aspect of grief or the grieving process.
I haven’t yet had the opportunity to read the book—that would require a trip to the library or the bookstore—but her Salon interview is almost enough to pull me out of my state of apathy long enough to acquire and read it.
From the article:
Grief is just so scary. Our grief and rage just terrify us. If we finally begin to cry all those suppressed tears, they will surely wash us away like the Mississippi River. That’s what our parents told us. We got sent to our rooms for having huge feelings. In my family, if you cried or got angry, you didn’t get dinner.
We stuffed scary feelings down, and they made us insane. I think it is pretty universal, all this repression leading to violence and fundamentalism and self-loathing and addiction. All I know is that after 10 years of being sober, with huge support to express my pain and anger and shadow, the grief and tears didn’t wash me away. They gave me my life back! They cleansed me, baptized me, hydrated the earth at my feet. They brought me home, to me, to the truth of me.
Ms. Lamott is an unapologetic Christian, and I am an unrepentant atheist, but much of her writing resonates deeply with me. I know all about stuffing those feelings, how crazy they can make you, and how terrifying it can be to let go and let the grief take over. I understand very well the fear that once the tears start, they’ll never stop, but I have finally come to the realization that even if they don’t, it will be ok. Slightly soggy, but ok nonetheless.
At least that is my fervent hope. I’m not there yet, but I’d like to think I’m on my way. That the losses in my past, and those rushing to greet my future, will eventually become a part of me, not my entire being. If progress was measured in tears, I’d be at the head of the class. I’ve cried more in the last four years than in all the (very many) accumulated years before. Not sure they’ve yet brought me back to “the truth of me,” but after years of feeling nothing, the pain at least lets me know I’m alive, and that’s something to celebrate.
Please share whatever is on your mind tonight, whether or not it is related to the diary.