It's Not You, It's Me
Grief narrows the scope of energy and interests in the severest way. I've touched on this before, the "caring about nothing and everything" mentality. Mustering wherewithal for seemingly normal endeavors can be life-draining. The smallest tasks, insurmountable.
It's hard to explain how depleting the grieving process is. How the subtraction of expectations, plans, responsibilities -all tied to the loss of a person- makes days bigger, more unmanageable. That doesn't compute. If, at 2 months in, Margot was her little, living newborn-y self (as she should be), my tearful exhaustion would make sense to people. But she isn't here. And our house is silent. And I'm still a mess.
To outsiders, grief can come across as a selfish emotion. Because figuring out how to live with deep hurt requires introspection and personal focus. Being the captain of your grief ship, especially at the center of the storm, is time consuming, lonely work. A crew and navigational resources can help lighten the load, but ultimately the most significant choices and undertakings fall to the captain. Which means her (or his) attention is limited to the task at hand, concentrated intensely inward while the tempest rages.
Tricia shared the "grief circles" illustration with me, which I found profound in its truth and simplicity. The person (or persons) directly affected by trauma are the center ring. Concentric ripples out represent tiers of those most closely impacted by the event. Arrows pointing towards the central spot symbolize love, care, and comfort the outer rings should be offering to the inner ones. Facing outwards are the natural projections of disappointment and upset the interior circles can be expected to express to the exterior ones. And those "feeling" arrows shouldn't change directions. Consoling sentiment won't radiate out from the middle, just as fringe circles can't place their burdens on the inner axis. A healthy grief model.
The hitch in this lovely diagram is that there are people involved. Complicated folks with personalities, belief systems, and their own baggage. Like me for instance. I've never been shy about my issues. The anxious people-pleaser. Competitive first born. Extroverted oversharer. But losing Margot has reshaped some of these foundational "me" elements. I guess when you're the point of impact, the center ring, fallout damage is bound to occur.
I used to love being in the spotlight, being the funny, sarcastic one in groups. Service to friends was a priority. I texted, checked in, and kept up with folks like it was my job. Unlike many mostly-home mamas, I had the flexible routine and decreased obligations of an older child. This allowed me to be physically available as support for my people's hectic homes of littles. But, as crazy as this sounds, I was looking forward to revisiting the newborn schedule of demands. Being busy and nurturing and needed in a way I haven't been for years. Then our daughter died and everything changed. I changed.
Outside the protection of our home, the world has become an inhospitable alien landscape. Every errand invites opportunities for uncomfortable encounters. David and I look down instead of up, actively avoiding eye contact in public. Social situations -even ones comprised of people we love- are exhausting. Because Margot talk feels inappropriate for these settings, but small talk feels like pretending. Every choice to mention (or NOT mention) her weighs heavily on my heart. And who wants to be THAT emotional anchor, the group's gray cloud of inner conflict and sadness? So, I'd rather leave. Or not come. The normal of before is obliterated. Focus and memory are shot, as our brains falter to process the trauma of December 8th. Reading, formerly a prominent household hobby, is now too taxing for (my) enjoyment. And, okay, NOW isn't FOREVER. Who knows, perhaps small pleasures and strength of personality and connecting socially may return to us in time. Or not. Because grief doesn't necessarily makes you the worst version of yourself, although clearly it could, but it certainly makes you the most broken version of yourself.
Which isn't all bad.
Listen: When your old self lies in front of you in pieces, it offers an opportunity for brutal assessment that almost nothing else does. What is important? What isn't? When your energy levels and defenses are low, honesty about relationships and boundaries and priorities is crucial. You are the captain of your very vulnerable ship, the protector of your fragile psyche. Don't open the "past you" floodgates and let everything rush back in. Take as long as you need, the earth can wait. Examine the pieces of your old life. Pick them up one at a time and determine which are worth keeping. And in the meantime, say "No" without guilt. Let the arrows of consolation and comfort come to you; don't fret over being ill-equipped to send them out to others like you once did. True friends -crew mates- will understand, will help bail out the storm waters as you reconstruct your vessel and chart a new course for the new captain you've become. Just never forget the route that brought you to this place, made you this person, both crushed and expanded your heart in unfathomable ways. Tether that part of you to the bow, an intrinsic compass, always pointing the way home.
It's hard to explain how depleting the grieving process is. How the subtraction of expectations, plans, responsibilities -all tied to the loss of a person- makes days bigger, more unmanageable. That doesn't compute. If, at 2 months in, Margot was her little, living newborn-y self (as she should be), my tearful exhaustion would make sense to people. But she isn't here. And our house is silent. And I'm still a mess.
To outsiders, grief can come across as a selfish emotion. Because figuring out how to live with deep hurt requires introspection and personal focus. Being the captain of your grief ship, especially at the center of the storm, is time consuming, lonely work. A crew and navigational resources can help lighten the load, but ultimately the most significant choices and undertakings fall to the captain. Which means her (or his) attention is limited to the task at hand, concentrated intensely inward while the tempest rages.
Tricia shared the "grief circles" illustration with me, which I found profound in its truth and simplicity. The person (or persons) directly affected by trauma are the center ring. Concentric ripples out represent tiers of those most closely impacted by the event. Arrows pointing towards the central spot symbolize love, care, and comfort the outer rings should be offering to the inner ones. Facing outwards are the natural projections of disappointment and upset the interior circles can be expected to express to the exterior ones. And those "feeling" arrows shouldn't change directions. Consoling sentiment won't radiate out from the middle, just as fringe circles can't place their burdens on the inner axis. A healthy grief model.
The hitch in this lovely diagram is that there are people involved. Complicated folks with personalities, belief systems, and their own baggage. Like me for instance. I've never been shy about my issues. The anxious people-pleaser. Competitive first born. Extroverted oversharer. But losing Margot has reshaped some of these foundational "me" elements. I guess when you're the point of impact, the center ring, fallout damage is bound to occur.
I used to love being in the spotlight, being the funny, sarcastic one in groups. Service to friends was a priority. I texted, checked in, and kept up with folks like it was my job. Unlike many mostly-home mamas, I had the flexible routine and decreased obligations of an older child. This allowed me to be physically available as support for my people's hectic homes of littles. But, as crazy as this sounds, I was looking forward to revisiting the newborn schedule of demands. Being busy and nurturing and needed in a way I haven't been for years. Then our daughter died and everything changed. I changed.
Outside the protection of our home, the world has become an inhospitable alien landscape. Every errand invites opportunities for uncomfortable encounters. David and I look down instead of up, actively avoiding eye contact in public. Social situations -even ones comprised of people we love- are exhausting. Because Margot talk feels inappropriate for these settings, but small talk feels like pretending. Every choice to mention (or NOT mention) her weighs heavily on my heart. And who wants to be THAT emotional anchor, the group's gray cloud of inner conflict and sadness? So, I'd rather leave. Or not come. The normal of before is obliterated. Focus and memory are shot, as our brains falter to process the trauma of December 8th. Reading, formerly a prominent household hobby, is now too taxing for (my) enjoyment. And, okay, NOW isn't FOREVER. Who knows, perhaps small pleasures and strength of personality and connecting socially may return to us in time. Or not. Because grief doesn't necessarily makes you the worst version of yourself, although clearly it could, but it certainly makes you the most broken version of yourself.
Which isn't all bad.
Listen: When your old self lies in front of you in pieces, it offers an opportunity for brutal assessment that almost nothing else does. What is important? What isn't? When your energy levels and defenses are low, honesty about relationships and boundaries and priorities is crucial. You are the captain of your very vulnerable ship, the protector of your fragile psyche. Don't open the "past you" floodgates and let everything rush back in. Take as long as you need, the earth can wait. Examine the pieces of your old life. Pick them up one at a time and determine which are worth keeping. And in the meantime, say "No" without guilt. Let the arrows of consolation and comfort come to you; don't fret over being ill-equipped to send them out to others like you once did. True friends -crew mates- will understand, will help bail out the storm waters as you reconstruct your vessel and chart a new course for the new captain you've become. Just never forget the route that brought you to this place, made you this person, both crushed and expanded your heart in unfathomable ways. Tether that part of you to the bow, an intrinsic compass, always pointing the way home.
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