Getting Good at Grief

Three devastating losses over a few short years challenged my every belief. I thought I understood. And then I was faced with the reality that intellectualizing is not the same as feeling, and feeling is not something that any amount of preparation can protect you from. 

I was introduced to manifestations of grief that I’d never met before; my very patient therapist spent months teaching them to me. Grief was memory loss and rejected phone calls. It was less and less time out of the house and a profound resentment of Christmas trees. It was crying in a parking lot because I’d smelled a specific brand of nicotine. It was exhaustion and fatigue. It was learning that “everything tasting gray” was, in fact, a loss of appetite. It was lying awake and trying to memorize laughs and smells so that the memories wouldn’t fade to time.

I was forced to acknowledge that grief has no respect for my hierarchy of loss. Expected versus unexpected, human versus animal, old versus young, death versus other kinds of loss. Grief doesn’t discriminate; the formula I was searching for didn’t exist, and grief refused to follow the rules I’d assigned it.

I think the strangest part of the whole journey was that I resisted recovery with everything I had. If we figured out a way to make my pain more palatable, did that mean my loved ones mattered less? Did feeling better mean forgetting? Grief had basically become my personality, so what did I have left if I set it down? Who would carry the memories if I didn’t?

Therapy didn’t fix my grief. I didn’t leave a single grief therapy session feeling happy. I left resentful, empty, tearful, and a myriad of other feelings.  My very patient (very, very patient) therapist let me feel them. She didn’t placate me with empty promises, and she didn’t set a timeline for me. She looked my grief straight in the eye and coaxed me to recognize it in all of its manifestations. She helped me recognize what my grief was doing, helped me understand that some things I hadn’t realized were grief actually were, and eventually helped me distinguish loving and remembering from suffering.

I prefer the version of reality in which none of the growth I experienced was necessary. Healing didn’t retroactively make the losses I experienced feel worthwhile. I’m not particularly grateful that I had to learn what I did. Therapy couldn’t make any of that the reality I live in.

But it never tried to, either. It asked me to live alongside what happened.

Therapy didn’t teach me how to stop grieving; nothing ever will. I still hate Christmas trees and hear a record scratch when I smell certain brands of cigarettes. Sometimes I cry over a dog collar and a ratty toy mouse. I’ve kept phone numbers in my contacts, emojis and all,  knowing that they can’t reach anyone. I watch faces get lower and lower on the “People” tab of my Google Photos and feel nauseous. 

Therapy didn’t stop grief, but it helped me reach an equilibrium that was sustainable. 

Am I good at grief? No. But I’ve gotten to the point where I can be a good friend and a good partner. I’ve gotten to the point where I can be creative and go outside. I attribute those things to a very, very, very patient and compassionate grief therapist. If anyone asked me if therapy was worth trying, I would say it provided me with the tools that allow me to coexist with my grief in a way that feels like an accomplishment more often than not. And for something you can’t get good at, I think that goes a long way.