Some have suggested I see a therapist. As a therapist, my immediate response is, “I don’t need a therapist,” almost like a knee jerk reaction. But I knew I did. And I didn’t want pride to stand in the way of my healing. So, I began seeing a therapist.
Last night, my therapist suggested I was more “perky” than the previous week. Is that a sign of growth? I fear I am in denial, so I naturally assume I am in denial. But he didn’t think it was denial, he thought it was progress (more happy, less sad). I readily acknowledge Deb’s death. I walk to her grave almost every day. My walks there was dictated by the winter sun (or lack thereof). I’m would like to not walk in the dark for fear of tripping, not of other men of ill intent.
Deb and I loved our graveyard. Being right behind our house, it was perfect for family walks, teaching children how to ride bikes, and even how to drive cars. And when the kids grew up and left the house, Deb and I would often go for walks there. We loved its beauty, its solitude, and it’s quiet, even though we are in the middle of a city.
I told the therapist I’m “uncomfortably comfortable with my grief.” The grief is terrible, but not as bad as it was a week ago. At least, not all the time. I’m getting used to it. It’s becoming familiar territory. The black hole has lost some of its power over me. I not as scared as I was of it. It doesn’t follow as closely as it did. I have pockets of feeling stable. Yes, it still hurts, but my eyes are just above the water line.
I’m uncomfortable with how I feel, because I think I “should” feel worse. I fear others will think poorly of me of not crying all the time. I don’t spend time on this view, it just happens. It’s a knee jerk reaction. And I end up shaming myself in “how I am grieving.” I know in my head there is no standard for grieving, but in my fears, there is, and I’m failing.
My therapist suggested that I’m experiencing paradoxes, that I’m feeling opposite feelings at the same time. I feel content, but I’m also pretty miserable. I’m functioning, but, at times, I’m barely holding on. I feel hope, but I still have despair. And, I’m sure there is more despair to come. The opposites are dizzying to me. I’m not incapacitated, (I go to work every morning), I’m just hindered, kind of like I’m driving around with my parking brake on.
My View of my Feelings
Others are not pressuring me to “get better,” I am. I’m back at work and need to see prisoners and get paperwork done. I need to learn how to feed myself. And I need to fix my godforsaken washing machine.
I don’t cry with my therapist. I don’t think he’s a crying-kind-of-guy. I tend to shame myself for not crying more, because I loved Deb so much. This grief thing is weird (or, this grief thing has revealed how weird I was all along). I don’t know what I’m actually feeling. I compound my pain by feeling I should be like others who cry all the time. He encourages me to let go of my false guilt. He encourages me to “journey through your grief at your own pace.” My pace is to get things done as quickly as possible so I can get to the next task. So…I shouldn’t go at my pace, I need to recalibrate what I’m doing. I’m just not sure what I’m doing.
The grief pain is like getting randomly punched in the gut, when I least expect it. If I knew when it was coming, I’d be more prepared, but I have no idea. I don’t know when I’m going to fall apart next. This anxiety causes me more tension. I fear looking incompetent if I fall apart at work, and don’t feel safe enough to cry in public.
You’d think after 58 years I’d have a pretty good handle on my own body, but I feel like I’m trying to communicate with a dog, trying to understand what he’s trying to tell me as he yips and whines; and all I can come up with is that he wants a pot roast. My own body is not completely under my control, and I can’t stop thinking I’m in something like the Matrix.
Crying
I made dinner for myself and noticed something. I kept stopping what I was doing and would just stare. Sometimes I’d stare for thirty seconds, sometimes five minutes. I made eggs, but it shouldn’t have taken this long to make eggs. I had Rachmaninoff playing piano in the background, something to that brings me more comfort than a DJ saying as many words as possible in a thirty second time frame. And I couldn’t stop staring. It wasn’t what I was looking at, it was like I was lost. No clear thoughts were going through my mind. I think it was a physical reaction to grief. Is that normal?
Then the black hole got me. I overwhelmed me when I wasn’t paying attention. It swallowed me and I was gone. I vomited tears. It wasn’t vomit, but it’s the closest explanation I could use for this experience. I was convulsing, making a weird noise, like I was coughing because something was in my lungs. But there was nothing in my lungs, I was just crying. Or it is wailing? I’m not sure.
I sat in my empty dining room, in my empty house, crying toward the back sliding glass windows, looking over the graveyard. So, I got up and went to a more comfortable setting, the living room with soft chairs that rock. I watched the Christmas lights, the lights that Deb loved so much. She’d look forward to having the lights up and sitting in the silence, “taking it all in.” Deep powerful memories resurfaced in her mind as she enjoyed the Christmas experience.
I went through half a box of Kleenex and made a mess of everything. I was in her rocker, the chair she sat in when we would talk for hours. I felt close to her, rocking and rocking. I allowed the sadness to overwhelm me. I made no attempt at slowing down the wave of grief.
I was rocking like a madman, but that was OK. I was alone and would not stop this experience. Perhaps I was trying to comfort myself with my rocking. I’m not sure. I knew it would be good once it had finished its work, but it hurt crying so hard for that length of time.
Finally, when I ran out of tears, I felt exhausted. It was like I jogged for two miles. I brought my breathing back in sync with my body as I remained in her chair, in the dark. It still hurt, but it was good to cry.
I could not have done this without a big God, one who was close to me. I need a God who is trustworthy. One who is with me. One who doesn’t turn away when I fall apart, one who’s not embarrassed of me when I am.
I took a shower and went to bed. It was a powerful and terrible experience. I know my body needed to wail, but it seems to be doing things without my consent. It’s like the sadness is not working with me, but thrust upon me. Or…perhaps I am not paying attention to what my body is saying to me. Perhaps I’m tone-deaf to it.
I want to compare myself to other men, but I’m not sure how. Is this healthy? Is this a good thing? Should I be ashamed of it? I know it was a miserable experience. It feels like grief is like driving a boat in a storm while wearing a blindfold. It’s disorienting, terrifying, and it seems, to me, unnecessary. Can’t I grieve at my own pace. Or, perhaps, this is my pace and I’m simply not aware of my own body.
Maybe that wasn’t a black hole. I didn’t feel hopeless. I’m not in despair. I was just so very sad. I lost my precious wife and I will never get her back. I had her a few weeks ago. She was with me every step of the last 32 years. Always near. And now she’s not. And she’s not coming back. I’m alone in my bed. I’m alone in my house. I’m alone at the grocery store. And no one wants to know how my day went when I get home at night.
I think there are a few levels of loneliness. The worst ones have no hope. They can’t see past their pain. I know I try to speed the pain up so I can get through it quicker (thus less pain in my feeble mathematical pain formula). But I’m here. I’m in pain. I feel the darkness.
But there is Jesus. I always have him. He makes the darkness less dark. He allows me to see the future enough to know that He will be there with me when it comes.
He’s a good God. He isn’t trying to get even with me for all the sins I’ve done. David said,
“Surely goodness and mercy will follow me all the days of my life…” Psalm 23:6 (NIV)
I have a hard time accepting this statement. I doubt his goodness to me. Not because of him but because of my sin-tainted self-protective filter. I’m trying to make sure I won’t feel the sting of death this bad in the future. I don’t want to hurt again like this. That would be too much for me.
A few years ago, after my mom died, I stumbled upon the meaning of this verse. God intends good things for me. I don’t know what they are, but they are good. They are for my best. He’s not getting vindication for my divided heart. He’s working to draw me closer to him, which is the best thing he could do.
“Life is short,” a flippant statement with a great deal of punch behind it. Deb taught me this. Life is very short. Eternity is a much longer than I can imagine, but I don’t live like that. I live like all the people around me, like what I see is all there is to life. I’m quick to lose focus on eternity and assume my ways are the best ways. But God gently redirects my short-sightedness and reminds me of him. He reminds me what he’s trying to do in me. He’s more concerned about my character than my comfort. He wants my heart, and will do anything to get it.
That’s my only hope.