Surviving on Grief
In the last month, I’ve gone through amazing highs, deepening love, eye opening clarity and heartbreaking loss. Since there happened to be a story in each one, let’s begin with heartbreaking loss…because grief has a tendency to soften our memories. It has a way of buffering itself, blurring itself, until it becomes one with you. And, if you give attention to it in the quietest moments, it tends to highlight opportunities for gratitude and hauntingly spiritual truths to us.
Grief…. Something I used to fear enough to run from hide, shut it out, numb at all costs. But now, it has revealed itself as a bolster, fortifying me with the strength I needed to get me through.
The old me used to get drunk after every funeral, even when I lost someone to alcohol. I poured self-destruction down my throat, chasing shots with more Jack Daniels on ice. I rarely remembered how I got home or who threw a blanket over me as I passed out on their couch. I used to drink with a dead stare in my eyes and no words to speak, gazing off at nothing hoping for blackness and silence to take over my mind.
Grief became one of the reasons I feared sobriety most while I was still drinking. I was terrified I’d never survive losing a loved one without drowning my sorrows in whiskey and wine. But sober grief showed me that numbness already exists inside grief. It’s that dulling of the senses, unpredictable in both duration and intensity, that naturally exists within loss. With out without alcohol or drugs, the numbness is still there.
We lost my stepdad last week and my heart is broken in more ways than I imagined. Every nerve ending in my body feels muted, as if the volume was turned down on my physical senses. When I used to drink, I would compartmentalize my sadness and pack it away to get through the day, only to pour wine on it all night hoping it’ll stay far far away from where I could see our feel it. But in sobriety, I’m finding the benefits far outweigh more than just the hangover.
In the last week, I’ve focused on doing things that create any spark of energy inside of me as it comes up. I listen when my whole body screams ‘No!’ at the idea of going out some nights, and when it says it’s time to take a nap. I grab my favorite blanket, book, and my dog to read under my favorite tree when that’s the only idea that makes it feel like air is returning to my lungs. I’ve only showered twice, but I made it to my dental cleaning. My house it covered in piles of unopened mail and unfolded laundry, but I’ve propagated plants, made macrame plant hangers, rearranged all the books on my shelves, and played my drums once.
I’m choosing to give my grief extra rest and time to heal. In turn, it’s fueling me with a gentle knowing I will get through this okay. I’ve not pushed myself to accomplish anything and by doing so, I’ve freed my limited energy up to help mom start planning a funeral, and to knock out some good code at work. My sweet hubby works to keep me fed in the meantime. Thanks, babe!
It’s that fuel of grief that reminds us to hug our loved ones in a way that’s not just a polite greeting. It helps us make the calls and fill out the forms when we can’t think of the last time we ate. It reminds me to focus on the present moment. On the feeling inn my fingertips as I run them tenderly over the soft flesh of my husband’s forearm. Slowly feeling my nerve endings again, focusing only on touch for a moment, reminds me I will someday feel alive like I did before.
My stepdad always complimented me and believed in me as a writer, so maybe that’s the reason my mind has been flooded with ideas and words for the last few days. They bounce around trying to find their way out. It’s a stark contrast to the fear I’ve held onto for an embarrassingly long time. This fear that writing was nothing but a selfish endeavor, and I’ve been frozen in fear of returning to it.
But that voice inside of me, the one who loves telling stories, is back. Maybe she never left. But there is something in this grief that’s fueling a part of me I thought had gone out.
I have a hunch that grief will become like a vignetted layer over the words that come out of my heart for a while, but in that softened blur also resides vulnerability and honesty. Two of my favorite parts of stories.
Hoping I can harness this fuel and get my spark back for good… and never let that fire go out again.
Kristy
