Grieving in Facebookland

I wrote these words (in italics) four weeks after Rick died. This was my first time sharing my grief on Facebook. The normal font is from my reflections as I look back at that time.

I was hesitant to post this because Facebook is supposed to be all about happiness, certainly not 3 AM thoughts about my dead husband. Over the last month though, I have come to understand one of the reasons I didn’t know much about grief was because we simply don’t talk about it. Weather due to the fear of being vulnerable during an incredibly vulnerable time. Or simply that they were private people and grief can feel intimate. Regardless, it seems like a foreboding life experience that is shrouded in secrecy. For me personally, I want people to see what grief looks like in real time. Hell, I don’t know what the next year will look like, but I am committed to sharing it in hopes that some of the realities of grief and mourning will bring others forward in a sort of “me too” movement. I cannot be the only one who questioned their sanity when I was thrown into grief suddenly. It is an unsettling scary place to be even when surrounded by many who love us. To experience it alone is utterly terrifying.

I am determined to be as vulnerable and as congruent as I can be. Truthfully, this will be uncomfortable for me, yet it is necessary for my healing. I hope I will find strength in it. Only time will tell.

Since I was a little girl, I have been a voracious reader and writer. I found comfort in writing my thoughts down, especially when things were difficult. It became a way to heal and find strength in what I was enduring. It helped me make sense of something non-sensical. While I may not have wanted to share my thoughts aloud, I needed to put them on paper. Even as an adult, I found myself putting pen to paper during challenging times. I have written three manuscripts tucked safely in a drawer that I never intended to publish. Rick and the kids enjoyed my writing and pleaded with me to take the next step; however, I wasn’t confident enough to even consider publishing my work. Writing keeps me sane, keeps me grounded. Without it I would certainly go mad.

Bri’s best friends came here to spend time with her, after her dad died. Coincidentally, my best friend happened to be here at the same time. Having company felt challenging, but I also knew it would be good for us to be around those who loved Rick, too. We decided on a girls’ trip to Waco. By the second day, I was already feeling as if I would burst from holding in my tears and pretending to smile and laugh when I was dead inside. I encouraged them to go without me and have a fun time. I didn’t have the energy to go. I’m sitting here in the quiet solitude of a hotel room because having fun with Bri and our friends feels like a betrayal to him. Sometimes being alone with my thoughts and my tears is easier than sharing them with those that I love who are navigating their own grief. I am about to dump some of the darkest parts of real life into Facebook land. Scroll on if you'd like. I won't be offended.

 There are so many layers of grief that I had no clue about. Yes, my grandparents died whom I loved very much, and were a huge part of my life growing up. A few friends have died through the years too. My first experience with death was when I was fourteen. Rick’s best friend Donnie drowned. It was one of the few times during our life together that I saw Rick weep. With each of those losses, I was sad for a time. I cried when I thought about never seeing them again, but it was not “that bad,” not like losing Rick where my heart was ripped out of my chest and stomped on. My other experiences with grief and loss were manageable. Imagine my shock and surprise when this was not.

When I saw people grieve, they appeared to move through it easily. For some reason, it never occurred to me that people may not be comfortable grieving out loud, I ignorantly thought they went through it quickly. But I never stopped to ask either. As soon as the funeral was over, so was their grief and mourning. I can’t believe I was that clueless, but those around me made it look so easy. Were they following societal norms for what is appropriate to display in public? I’m left to wonder if many people were in deep grief for years but were forced to hide it and suffer in silence. To only weep when they were alone in the privacy of the shower or their bedroom. When I think of that, I am filled with abhorrence and pity, for that my friends, is where the true tragedy lies. Grief becomes toxic if we hold all that pain inside with nowhere to go. Surely, I would die if I held it in.

Unfortunately, those early experiences set the stage for me to think that grief was a deep sadness, but over a few months people “got over it” and “moved on.” Imagine my shock when my grief spun me around and knocked me on my ass, leaving me lost and confused. I had no idea what gut-wrenching grief felt like until the night of May 24th, 2021, with the sudden death of Rick. It was all consuming. I think on some level I knew that our grief culture was broken. Afterall, I was one of the many out there who had no idea (nor did I want to) what grief looked like. It was a scary thought to lose one of my kids or my husband. It was uncomfortable. It was unthinkable. It was scary. Too scary in fact. And while death and grief are inevitable, I preferred to ignore its existence like millions of other people out there.

Even though there are hundreds of books written on the subject. Even though there are podcasts and a plethora of information on social media about grief and loss, we still don “see” it. If we are in a situation where we are forced to confront grief, we say awkward and uncomfortable things that are not that helpful, and sometimes unintentionally hurtful. We have heard them repeated with each generation, so they must be the thing to say, right? We may even know deep down they aren’t helpful, but we simply don’t know what else to say. We say them anyway, with good intentions. We awkwardly say the bare minimum in our discomfort as quickly as we can. Then, we peace out, relieved it’s behind us.

Let’s face it, the average person isn’t good at leaning into that space of grief and loss. Those who witness the grief or those that find themselves in it, struggle to find their footing. Even those who think they are good at supporting a grieving person, may not be. My apologies in advance because I’m going to offend some of you. My point is, it’s difficult to be good at something when we don’t talk enough about it. Grief is a heavy topic that few people are excited to engage in. Which is so odd for the simple fact that we will talk about politics, careers, sports, infidelity, parenting, retirement, religion, abortion, relationships, and even our finances. But no one openly discusses grief unless it is in the form of speaking about a griever in terms of “how they are doing.” You see,  if no one talks about it, if we prefer grievers suffer in silence because it makes us uncomfortable;  if we place a diagnosis of prolonged grief on someone who is broken a year after their loved one died; if we don’t bother to lean into grief again and again, then there is little opportunity for any one of us to understand what is all wrapped up in it.

In three months, it will be three years since he left us. I find myself at this point speaking less and less about my healing journey. I can see the look of discomfort on people’s faces if I say his name. I hear the judgement just as much by what they don’t say as what they do. I feel their judgement along with my own internal judgement that it’s taken me “this long” and I still  have a way to go.

This leads me to be incongruent in my grief as I say, “I’m fine. I’m okay” along with the convincing fake smile that I have mastered in the last few months. Over time, I am learning that is detrimental for my mental health. In my mind’s eye, the first step is for society to “allow” us to be congruent in our grief. No matter how awkward or uncomfortable it may make others feel. For however long it takes us. Let’s normalize “grieving out loud.”  It’s crucial for us to develop a clear understanding on a deeper level of what grief looks like, how it affects our daily lives, and that it can take an exceedingly long time to heal from. By starting there, others would witness the ebb and flow of grief; the deep holes of despair we can fall into and the effort it takes to climb out of it; along with the many layers that are a part of healing. I have walked this path with several other widows. I am not unique in my feelings. We all feel it and it’s soul crushing on top of everything else we are trying to navigate.

While I agree no one could prepare me for what I would feel and experience in deep grief. I watch how each one of my grown children and grandchildren navigate their own grief. It’s so different for each of them and while there are nuances of similarities, it’s unique. None of us are good at it if we must continue to endure it incongruently and alone. Grief is A LOT. It has layers upon layers that show up without warning. It is a constant ebb and flow of facing it, then healing. As we heal from one of these layers, we barely have time to catch our breath before another one shows up. These “layers” involve physical sensations as well as mental sensations on top of  this already overwhelming sadness that I never imagined I would feel so deeply. Grief is all-consuming. Grief is exhausting. Grief is isolating. It’s no wonder that widows are six times more likely to commit suicide within the first year. That simple fact makes me feel the urgency that we can and must do better.

What has shocked me to my core is how messy, chaotic, and frenzied grief can feel. No one told me that it isn't simply a deep sadness, but a physical pain that makes the very act of breathing difficult. I was unprepared for any of it. Thankfully, my Aunt Sue told me the harsh reality the day after Rick died. She told me grief is something that you must do alone, and there is no shortcutting it. That simple statement terrified me, and yet it gave me something to think of when I was navigating my own grief. I have so many of you who continue to check on me daily. It matters to me. Still, it has been my children who have had to pick me up off the ground when the pain of grief overcomes me, and I collapse in a heap of sorrow. I walk in a constant fog of grief. I wander around aimlessly until someone notices and tells me to go back to bed or go relax on the couch. I am numb. I am overstimulated by grief and mourning. I am exhausted. I feel weak and weary. And I miss my husband so badly, it is a physical ache that I don’t think can ever be filled. God. I miss that man.

Grief does not remind me that I am strong or brave, like people tell me I am. It reminds me that I am human, vulnerable, scared, and most of all without my other half. We had a plan for our future and all that we accomplished was together. How do I do it alone? What am I supposed to do now? I never had my own plan. My life consisted of Rick always there, always an integral part of my life, for my entire adult life it was me and him. He was my past, present, and future until that night in May. I have no idea what the future looks like now without him. The future was hopeful, exciting, and full of possibility. Now, it is a black hole that as I peer in, I am filled with fear. Panic and overwhelm set in and suddenly, I am a quivering ball of sorrow, begging him to come back. No. I am not strong or brave. I am surviving.

The secret is I was strong because I had Rick beside me encouraging. He knew more than I believed that I could do anything I set my mind to. It’s amazing the sorts of things you can accomplish when your partner believes in you. Sometimes, when his belief in me wasn't enough, he told me we would get through it together. It was often then that I found my strength and determination because I knew I had a good partner beside me. You never have any idea how much your person gets you through the difficulties of life, until they are ripped from you forever and you are standing alone, vulnerable and exposed. You never have any idea what grief is like until you are in it. The harsh reality is no one can prepare us for what grief is like. Minimally, it would have been helpful to have a realistic concept of grief. It was the impending doom I carried alone as I thought I was losing my mind simply because I didn’t know what normal reactions to grief were.

I wish I could say with optimism I'll be fine, that I'll come through this grief journey, stronger and better for having endured this pain. That’s what old Darlene would say. For now, I can only take it one day, one step, and one hour at a time. I am bruised. I am wounded. I fear that I may be broken beyond repair. I simply do not know at this point. Thank you for all the love and friendship you have shown me. You have been amazing beacons of support, and I am nothing short of grateful.