Grief Boss
When you are a people-pleaser, as I am, you worry A LOT about others' thoughts/opinions/reactions concerning your behavior. Which, now that I say it, really equates to an exercise in third party narcissism. Like, "I care about YOU caring about ME." But it puts this strange, internal (albeit self-imposed) pressure on a person. An extra, sometimes stifling, filter to run everything through. So imagine, you magically sane unicorns who don't struggle this way, how super fun it is to live with a continuous critical and second-guessing dialogue in your head after every action, every conversation. Okay? Next, add intense grief on top of that steamy brain cesspool. Yummy, Laura soup.
Neurosis over achieving certain expectations (a.k.a. Being a perfectionist) is a common trait in firstborns. At 7, I simply assumed EVERYONE'S Barbies were *always* red carpet ready from head-to-toe. On discovering otherwise, my horror (and judgement of friends) was severe. (Because really, how hard is it to brush Skipper's hair and dress her in a tasteful pair of pumps? I'ma need y'all to step it up.) Yeah, so perfectionism. Which goes hand-in-hand with people-pleasing tendencies (and GUILT over hypothetical failure scenarios), escalating the mental exertion of us already anxious folk to a near constant boil. And now you understand why wine and psychotropic drugs exist.
You'd think grief would toss all this nonsense out the window, but it doesn't. In fact, it magnifies the mess. Especially for dummies who overshare their ugly, most real feels in person and social media and blogging platforms and all the places. (Read: Me.) Putting yourself out there is an equally freeing and venerable place. It's cathartic to honestly represent a viewpoint or situation through writing. I love that my words could promote understanding for ones unacquainted with certain topics (infertility, adoption, foster care, anxiety, infant loss), while potentially serving as a helping or connection point for others in the midst of those very issues. But being candid about grief is even harder. Because grief is personal. Individually crafted from a multitude of factors, the particular privilege of carrying this shitty, custom-made backpack of bricks is YOURS alone. Yet, the advice flows in from well-meaning sources. Some will wear backpacks of their own. They may want to discuss backpacks or offer tips on how to hold yours better. "Your backpack would want you to have fun," they'll urge. And perhaps also it should be tidied or embellished in order to appear more pleasing to the public. While others will be shocked that you're STILL holding on to that backpack! Here's the thing: The grief burden and process is a singular ordeal. Uniquely yours to carry or walk through. Not that travelers haven't hiked similar roads, but no person -besides YOU- has journeyed your specific path. Hence, you get to be the boss of your own damn grief.
Before Margot, I never recognized society's overwhelming need to hold suffering to a standard. Like the appropriate length of time to grieve, how vocal you're allowed to be about sorrow (without people trying to convince you out of it), what are (and aren't) acceptable ways to cope. Mourners get bestowed with a one-size-fits-all box to cram feels into. And because I am an authentic extrovert, my expressions of grief are authentic and extroverted and too big for the box. (Ask the unsuspecting postal worker who started his unfortunate attempt at small talk by saying, "How are you doing today?" I didn't even respond in words, just groaned "Uuuuugggggggggh" for awhile. He stopped trying to talk to me after that--LOL.) I don't sugarcoat anything. Which scares folks (especially postal workers). Americans will build and hustle and pick themselves up by their boot straps and climb mountains and fly to space, but sitting quietly with sadness makes us uncomfortable. We'd rather manage or divert grief as it puts us back in the realm of DOing, moving, fixing. But healing takes time and rest. This is common knowledge with physical injuries, not so much with deep wounds to the psyche. Your innermost self. Probs the most dark and difficult space to heal.
With all that said (and at the behest of my counselor), I am letting go of grief expectations. Both my own and everybody else's. Grief work is exhausting without taking on any extra baggage or guilt. Heaven knows, the issues I already have are heavy enough. Without further ado, here's my BILL OF RIGHTS: (Oooh, All caps and underlined = Super official)
Neurosis over achieving certain expectations (a.k.a. Being a perfectionist) is a common trait in firstborns. At 7, I simply assumed EVERYONE'S Barbies were *always* red carpet ready from head-to-toe. On discovering otherwise, my horror (and judgement of friends) was severe. (Because really, how hard is it to brush Skipper's hair and dress her in a tasteful pair of pumps? I'ma need y'all to step it up.) Yeah, so perfectionism. Which goes hand-in-hand with people-pleasing tendencies (and GUILT over hypothetical failure scenarios), escalating the mental exertion of us already anxious folk to a near constant boil. And now you understand why wine and psychotropic drugs exist.
You'd think grief would toss all this nonsense out the window, but it doesn't. In fact, it magnifies the mess. Especially for dummies who overshare their ugly, most real feels in person and social media and blogging platforms and all the places. (Read: Me.) Putting yourself out there is an equally freeing and venerable place. It's cathartic to honestly represent a viewpoint or situation through writing. I love that my words could promote understanding for ones unacquainted with certain topics (infertility, adoption, foster care, anxiety, infant loss), while potentially serving as a helping or connection point for others in the midst of those very issues. But being candid about grief is even harder. Because grief is personal. Individually crafted from a multitude of factors, the particular privilege of carrying this shitty, custom-made backpack of bricks is YOURS alone. Yet, the advice flows in from well-meaning sources. Some will wear backpacks of their own. They may want to discuss backpacks or offer tips on how to hold yours better. "Your backpack would want you to have fun," they'll urge. And perhaps also it should be tidied or embellished in order to appear more pleasing to the public. While others will be shocked that you're STILL holding on to that backpack! Here's the thing: The grief burden and process is a singular ordeal. Uniquely yours to carry or walk through. Not that travelers haven't hiked similar roads, but no person -besides YOU- has journeyed your specific path. Hence, you get to be the boss of your own damn grief.
Before Margot, I never recognized society's overwhelming need to hold suffering to a standard. Like the appropriate length of time to grieve, how vocal you're allowed to be about sorrow (without people trying to convince you out of it), what are (and aren't) acceptable ways to cope. Mourners get bestowed with a one-size-fits-all box to cram feels into. And because I am an authentic extrovert, my expressions of grief are authentic and extroverted and too big for the box. (Ask the unsuspecting postal worker who started his unfortunate attempt at small talk by saying, "How are you doing today?" I didn't even respond in words, just groaned "Uuuuugggggggggh" for awhile. He stopped trying to talk to me after that--LOL.) I don't sugarcoat anything. Which scares folks (especially postal workers). Americans will build and hustle and pick themselves up by their boot straps and climb mountains and fly to space, but sitting quietly with sadness makes us uncomfortable. We'd rather manage or divert grief as it puts us back in the realm of DOing, moving, fixing. But healing takes time and rest. This is common knowledge with physical injuries, not so much with deep wounds to the psyche. Your innermost self. Probs the most dark and difficult space to heal.
With all that said (and at the behest of my counselor), I am letting go of grief expectations. Both my own and everybody else's. Grief work is exhausting without taking on any extra baggage or guilt. Heaven knows, the issues I already have are heavy enough. Without further ado, here's my BILL OF RIGHTS: (Oooh, All caps and underlined = Super official)
- I can be brutally selfish with my time. I don't have to see people who suck my energy. I can cancel the crap out of plans- with anyone, anytime. I can choose to unfollow friends in social media settings (in a non-jerky way), particularly if their season of life causes me sadness. I get to focus on me, my immediate family, and what is best for us. Right now, the bulk of my attention goes inward, not outward, and that's completely healthy and okay.
- I can choose what activities are most healing for me. I will not conform to anyone else's timelines or expectations in this process. I won't push forward, if my heart needs to lay in bed. As Margot's mom, I decide how to honor her memory best. No one can force their opinions or ideas about living a legacy for her upon me. Because whether it's running a marathon or crying my guts out, those choices (within reason) are 100% mine.
- Honesty will remain my life blood. I won't feel ashamed about speaking the truth about my grief experience or any big questions it sparks. I will give myself space to be completely hurt and angry and heartbroken. I can yell at Jesus and doubt my faith. I will also try to remember that NOW isn't forever and there's no pressure to make huge existential decisions in the midst of this intense pain.
- I won't stop speaking Margot's name, just as I won't stop saying Elijah's. I won't apologize for treating her like the full person and family member she was and is. Parents of living children don't feel weird celebrating their son or daughter's birthday every year; they don't fret over mentioning their child too much on social media or how bringing them up might affect a conversation. Neither will I. And if our loving treatment of Margot bothers people, I'll easily release those relationships (or they can release me) like a balloon into the sky (or a cement block into a swamp).
- I can embrace what brings me joy because I DO deserve happiness. I won't stifle my laughter or tears for the sake of others' sensibilities. I will set appropriate boundaries for my newly changed self, notably in people-y interactions. I will cherish the hell out of the ones who've stuck by our side, who've loved (and continue to love) us and our girl like crazy. As a grief rookie, I'll give myself grace during the process, acknowledging there is no one "RIGHT" way to do this. And lastly, I retain the authority to feel however I want, even if it means rewriting this whole effing bill of rights tomorrow. Because it's MY grief and I'm the boss. The end.
Queen of the Grief Garbage
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