I hate this question at the best of times. But since G died it has almost become a phobia. Maybe I'm just too honest for my own good but I never mastered the art of the generic 'I'm fine'. Lately I tend to say, if I must answer this question at all 'mixed' or 'changeable' or 'up and down'. Or maybe 'I don't know'.
Grief is not linear. This I can testify. Sometimes I feel chatty and lively, enjoy myself for a while. Or I just feel ordinary. Ordinary driving, ordinary cooking. And it is such a gift. And it leaves as it came. And returns. But in between, the depth of the grief actually seems to get deeper and I didn't think it possible. At those times it is as if it will never end, as if there is no bearing it, no way to live with this reality of G's murder. The terrible tragedy and waste of it, and the loss for me of her in my life. Also for many others, and I do think of them too. But she was my therapist, and that means I don't know her close people, those with whose feelings I most strongly resonate. Can only imagine. And picture them as I saw them at the funeral. Helpless with grief. Utterly bemused to be saying good bye to a pale wicker coffin.
I can't explain therapy, least of all my own. I was privileged to have a profoundly intimate and healing relationship, with someone whose patience amazed me, but who was never afraid to challenge me either, in ways no one else ever has. To be more of myself. To grow. And she allowed me to allow her to become many people to me, as well as simply herself, in all her humanity, wonderful and flawed as are we all. So I grieve for all of these. And although I am not alone, truly truly not, at the same time, I grieve alone.
3 comments:
There will be a time, maybe not too long now, when you will be able to celebrate everything she was for your (and still is and always will be) and everything she made you see and understand. Celebrate with joy and gratefulness.
I find that is when grief shows its better face. You will get there. Take care, be patient.
Hmm, that question.
I suppose the more shocking and horrific the nature of a death, the more that eclipses, hopefully, as Sabine says, not forever, the potential to celebrate the life. Perhaps.
I've heard families and survivors of mass murders like Dunblane say that horrendous though it is, the fact that they can openly be with others who have undergone exactly the same horror at the same time does, they feel, make it a little easier than it must be for those who go through something similar alone.
I can see that it's difficult to avoid, partly because of the nature of your relationship and partly because that's maybe always a bit how it is, but it seems a pity you are largely prevented from connecting with the others who suffer her loss too. Except of course through an act of sympathetic imagination.
Imagination of the pain and sorrow of others and can be a curse and a source of terrible anguish, but also of hope and healing, and the only real chance of making the world, and each other's lives, a little better. Let's hope.
Thank you both for these thoughtful responses. What I can say is that grief does not stand still. Lots of change this week. Need a new word for this emotion of joy/sadness of remembering...
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