The Velveteen Rabbit

I've been reading about other people's grief journeys. It's been helpful to get other perspectives and share feelings. The thing I've been thinking about is something I said offhandedly to someone recently.  This grief isn't like the loss of my mother, father and stepfather. This grief, this pain is different.

I've always said pain is relative. I still believe that. And at the risk of sounding overly dramatic or like I'm special, I'll say, this pain is the worst I've ever experienced. I wonder if it's partly fear.  When parents talk about the loss of a child, they make it the worst thing they could ever go through. It is, but I don't think it helps to make it this horrible fear. Maybe the fear is partly biological driven; we are, I believe, hard wired to protect our young, our children. So not being able to do that is its own wound.

People do get through the loss of a child or even as I've read, multiple children. Its life changing. I believe in the transformational power of grief. I don't know where I'm going and what's new for me is  I don't want to look very far ahead. It's the measure of my grief and pain. Some days I feel hopeless when I consider a life continuing to live with this much pain.

Some days, I see that I'm carving, literally carving out a space for this loss, this grief in my heart. It will always be there, sometimes large, talking loudly, sometimes whispering softly and sometimes silent. I don't have control over when. That type of letting go is something I never thought I could get to. Losing Andrew is, the closest analogy is like someone cut off my arm. I can function, but differently. My arm is gone.

I don't want to be here. I am at times kicking and screaming about being here. I would much rather be continuing to walk with Andrew through his addiction. I believe with all my heart he would have found sobriety. But I am here. Some days my acceptance has a teaspoon of peace in it.

I used to be someone who worked hard on her relationships with friends and family. ( within the introvert schema) I was present for people. I like being a quiet observer. I tended to attract people with a lot of energy and drama. I enjoyed them.

Because this grief especially takes so much energy, I find I'm much more careful about my time and energy. I want people around me who accept me as I am. Who don't need my listening skills, so much of my support ( I'm good at support. Andrew said so).

I've found these people just make me tired now.  The drama of their lives which I used to find colorful and interesting is exhausting. It takes too much energy to be their friend.  I was, in fact reevaluating some of my friendships around this issue but grief pushed me there faster.  And if someone drops away because I was the major force ( which I enjoyed at one time) in our get togethers, I find I can accept that. It's a relief.

Weirdly, every time I've experienced major grief or pain, someone in my life; friend or family hasn't been there for me in a major way. I've gotten to the point with it where I feel like God is showing me what I refuse to see, what I explained away.

I find I care about these folks who have dropped away. I have compassion for them,  Sometimes, I miss our old easier times. But they have changed and so have I. Grief has helped me to say no to those relationships. To feel compassion for them and me. And to be okay with distance. I believe it could change again. Relationships, friendships sometimes have a season, sometimes wax and wane through stages of our lives.

Like the velveteen rabbit,  now, I want to be real. I want to be present in my friendships, share stories, laugh,  have patience with my and their faults and patience with my heavy story. It's not easy to be my friend. But I'm so grateful for my friends.

People talk to me about what to say in the face of grief. One of my clients gave me the best answer. Just say, you're thinking about the person. Because knowing I'm in your thoughts and prayers has been and continues to be a great comfort. However close or far away you are, friend, family or stranger; it helps. Grief is lonely.