grief is grief is grief
(written on Friday, December 23rd, but got caught up editing and didn’t realize that it was after midnight so it is throwing off my daily posting goal)
I originally went to the grief group because I felt isolated in grieving over Love. I knew other people who knew Love through work, but his death didn’t hit them. My family didn’t really know who he was though they knew who he was. I couldn’t connect to his family because I didn’t know them; they didn’t know I existed; and, well, I couldn’t, given the situation.
I understood that love was love, but I felt like I couldn’t connect with anyone else who had lost a loved one because my type of loss was different. I have lost my grandma before but she was my grandma. I wasn’t raised close to her. She died of cancer (or cancer treatment). I lost my great grandma but I was even less close to her. She was old and wanted to die.
But losing a lover…it didn’t feel like anyone could relate. Losing a parent is a great loss, surely; but, in my brain it still didn’t compute because you aren’t intimate with — and I mean having sex — your mother, or any other relative. Losing a lover — losing your Love — is like…losing your heartbeat and blood flow, losing half of yourself, losing your present, losing your future, losing your existence….even though this person isn’t related to you…even though this person hasn’t been with you since you presented on earth. But yet you have exchanged spirits and souls and DNA.
So when I went to the grief group, I actually was seeking to feel the stories of men and women who had lost their spouses. I assumed (correctly) that there wouldn’t be anyone there to talk about their boyfriend, mistress or side piece.
I met a teary widow and a smiley widower. I listened. I felt comforted though I didn’t speak and so they knew nothing of me. And then it hit me that I knew nothing of their pain either.
I cannot imagine what it would be like:
to marry someone and think that I would spend my life with that person, only to have it end so suddenly, especially after less than a decade.
to lie in bed alone.
to have to raise our child alone but yet keep their father’s memory alive.
to lose income which I was dependent upon.
to plan for the wake or memorial or funeral or whatever or be involved whatsoever in any posthumous dealings.
to have to handle any type of business or financial matters that we shared or that I didn’t have to originally deal with.
to have to decide what to do with the belongings…sort through them…give them away…don’t touch them.
to not have them to celebrate holidays, birthdays and events.
to have to reorganize my life in such a way that I had never planned, or imagined.
to have to move on…whatever the fuck that means…to have to be functional…to live…
When I say I cannot imagine it, I don’t mean it how it sounds. I actually can imagine it, very well; I am an empath (which is why I kept my eye on the family at the vigil and the memorial, which is also [part of] why I couldn’t shake hands/hug the family and why I try to keep others from touching me and am very careful about my space). It’s just that I recognized the difference and how harsh of a reality that is versus the situation I was in. And this isn’t an exercise in the “who has it worse” game. It is just acknowledgement that everyone experiences something unique to their role(s)/position(s)/experience(s).
So although I ignored half of the biblical teachings and prayers and calls on Jesus, I was able to feel the different losses in the grief group. This allowed me to grow even more as an empath in a positive way because everyone was so open and kind, even amidst the tears and pain. And even though I decided to stop attending, I am thankful that I was a part of that space in order to participate in my own healing.
