I’ll take two of what you’re having
And I’ll take all of what you’ve got
To kill this goddamn lonely, goddamn lonely love
I don’t know what to do with my pain. It still feels unbearable at times. I don’t know how to manage emotional pain this vast and this deep. It sometimes seems all the coping mechanisms in the world (meditation, exercise, deep breathing, social connections, therapy) cannot stand up to grief this intense. I have no idea how to reconnect with myself in the midst of sadness that feels as though it has swallowed me whole.
I feel very alone in my grief even though I know I’m not the only person who misses my husband. My pain still feels so acute at times, but meanwhile it seems the rest of the world has moved on.
My grief is not just a longing for people who aren’t here (although there’s plenty of that). It’s a redefining of my identity, a realignment of my support system / family ties / social connections, a reorienting to reality itself. I often feel I’m going through it all on my own. And in many ways, I am.
I’m aware that my pain is my own and that no one else can fully understand it, just as I can’t fully understand another’s struggle either. I’m also aware that when it comes to issues of identity and ways of interacting with the world, no one else can resolve those complexities. No one can deal with those things for me.
And yet, at the same time, I just don’t think I can get through this alone (despite my best efforts). I don’t think even the most resilient among us should cope with profound loss entirely on their own. People need other people. We need each other. We need community. And yet I struggle with what is mine to bear alone and what can be shared with others.
Is it an impossible thing to have company inside my grief? Is it an unattainable fantasy to share the weight of it with someone, a weight so crushing I often feel like its suffocating me? How do I open up and engage with the world while also tending to my outsize pain and overwhelming emotional needs?
I do have moments of joy, and I do my best to savor these moments. But the moments of joy are punctuated by waves of intense grief, trauma-induced anxiety and utter confusion about the way forward and who I am now under these new circumstances. I often feel frozen and dumbfounded in the wake of such overwhelming tragedy and the feelings that accompany acute grief: hopelessness, powerlessness, confusion, despair, rage, guilt, even shame.
I keep thinking I’m supposed to move through the pain, that I’m supposed to get past it somehow. But I’m not sure that’s a helpful way of looking at things. Getting past or getting through is an elusive, maybe even impossible, goal. I have to remind myself that it’s about finding peace, and even joy, in the midst of pain and sorrow. It seems simple and straightforward, but it’s actually very difficult to allow the pain to be there–to not run from it or try to change it or apologize for it–and then at the same time seek out those moments of peace and joy. My mind keeps trying to fix the pain, to solve it, to figure out a way to get past these feelings. It’s a hamster wheel that’s hard to step off of.
We live in a culture that encourages us to cover up our pain. At times we’re even outright shamed for feeling anything other than happiness. Sadness is sometimes seen as a choice, but when it comes to losing a loved one, pain is involuntary. We feel pain and we grieve because we love so deeply. Suffering is a choice (for example, making things harder on ourselves through self criticism). But grief is not a choice.
I sometimes feel judged for my ongoing grief. I often feel like I’ve failed myself and everyone else for not being “better” at this, for not knowing the way forward, for not being able to immediately pick up the pieces after my entire life came crashing down in an instant. But no matter what people think or what advice I’m given, I’m the one that lives with this palpable grief every day. And I’m doing the best that I can.
The only way out is through. We have to feel our feelings fully before they will release their hold on us. We have to be willing to let ourselves be torn down, to feel everything that wants to be felt, before we can pick ourselves back up.
Notes on Grief 