I like to pride myself on self-awareness, but I think I’m being kind to myself because it’s really just a polite way to say I overthink. I chalk this up to countless nights without sleep. Rather than counting sheep, which I’m pretty sure are exhausted from jumping over my imaginary fence so many times, I spend way too much time considering my strengths and weaknesses. (Less time on the strengths, heavy duty on the weaknesses.) On one of these magical nights, I realized how terrible I am at dealing with death. To be clear, I understand that death isn’t a happy thing to deal with for anyone. It’s not like dealing with a UTI, which is uncomfortable but tolerable and curable. Death is all-consuming, yet some people manage it better than others, and I’m the “others.” I mentioned this to my therapist: I suck at dealing with death. He suggested that perhaps it’s not death that I have a hard time processing but loss as a whole. Just what I needed: something else to think about. So, which one really ruffles my feathers: death or loss?
I’ve lost people in my life who haven’t died, and the effect on me was profound, mainly because I didn’t understand the loss. The woman who was my best friend since second grade left my life when I was 29 for reasons I don’t know. I lost the love of my life shortly after because I fell into a serious depression and insisted he deserved better. To this day, I’ve had difficulty processing these losses. I’ve never “gotten over them,” as they say.
I’ve had significant deaths in my life. My grandmother was my main caregiver, and even though she lived a full life, I lost her in my arms when I was 26. I’ll never forget watching the funeral director and his minion taking her out in the body bag. I’m pretty sure they’re supposed to be more discreet. Much more profoundly, I lost my beautiful four-year-old nephew in a tragic accident. I blame myself for his death, and the pain I feel for such an unfair loss goes far beyond my heart. I lost my father to ALS, my best friend to cancer when he was just 43, and my best furry friend, Oliver, just a few months after. I don’t own death. Everyone deals with it. But why am I so terrible at processing something that is the only thing guaranteed when we’re born? Even though I believe in a life after this one, I cannot find peace in their deaths. I dream of them. I crave their existence. I yearn for a life where they’re still present.
I keep going back to my therapist’s question, and there are two significant differences between those missing in my life but still present on earth and those who died: the first is choice, the second is magnitude. When someone leaves by your choice or theirs, it may be easier to digest, but it doesn’t make the longing for the happiness that once existed any less significant. When death is not by choice but circumstance, the magnitude of grief is overpowering for a few reasons: as an empath, my heart hurts tremendously for the person who didn’t get to fulfill the life they deserved to live. In addition, my heart aches for all those who feel the tremendous absence of that person. Death affects so many, and my tears are for all of us.
Here I am again – overthinking. I mean, being self-aware.
So, what is it, Haverly? Do you have a hard time dealing with death or a hard time dealing with loss as a whole? Honestly, I don’t think it matters because I think my real issue is with grief. Grief is a direct reflection of love, and I love deeply. So, in loss and death, I grieve profoundly and forever. It crawls into my soul and slowly tries to swallow my body, and it would if I didn’t find a way to let some of it out. I’m an advocate for letting grief out in any way that works for you. For me, I do talk therapy, I love sharing memories of my lost loved ones, I love art and getting lost in books. But what helps the most? A good f’ing cry. Yup. It’s like the grief has filled my body up from my toes to my eyeballs and it needs to escape, or it will take over the rest of me, so tears come as a way to pour out some of the grief. It’s like a bathtub that needs to drain some water before it overflows. It doesn’t matter where I am or who I’m with. I never hold back my tears when they come on. For me, it’s a matter of survival.
I was on the phone with a dear friend once, and after exchanging a few sarcastic jabs as we usually did, I suddenly burst into tears. My grief had reached my eyes apparently out of nowhere, like a flash flood. I apologized for the suddenness but not for the tears (I stopped apologizing for those long ago).
“Ehhh,” he said. “Sometimes umbrellas aren’t big enough.”
Although he couldn’t see me, I smiled. When it comes to love and loss, there’s nothing big enough to keep a grief rainstorm away, so perhaps it’s best we learn to dance in the rain instead. Rain is life; someday, I’ll be a better dancer.
