I Still Grieve, I Just Don't Shame Myself
Hopelessness. Depression. Grief. Mourning. Anxiety. Trepidation. These are the feelings that cloud my morning wake-state. The slippery space between sleeping and waking. A fog and heavy cloud of doubt and desperation that oozes my subconscious. And the not knowing if it is my real existence or just a dream.
This weekend I was a puddle of grief.
I have tried to push my own personal grief aside: there is already too much collective grief in the air, too much anticipation of the chaos that might be on the horizon.
This year has been deeply trying.
For the planet and those physically, economically, and collectively impacted by the pandemic. For our nation, as political, social, and civil divide turns us away from each other instead of towards, and the hope for understanding and empathy seems further and less likely than the possibility of true and final divide. For me, personally, as I navigate the unfathomable grief of my own individual loss, that I rarely discuss for its seeming insignificance in pale comparison to the death, destruction, and upheaval that fires all around me.
I have to remind myself not to let shame creep in. The same way I hold compassion for the individual grief and losses you carry, that are no less devastating than the ones we see plastered on the news. There is no comparison in grief. It just is.
And so this weekend when it all collided—when the new moon and her swelling energy pulled all of this year’s grief into one, heavy package—I fell to my knees. I crumbled.
I texted my therapist, “it feels as though my heart is being ripped in two. My chest feels so cold. Like ice water. And I cannot keep it from flooding.”
I drank too much wine and I slept with rice cakes on my pillow. I cried and watched home videos. I sat on the floor and rocked back and forth, cradling myself like a child, wailing.
Grief doesn’t wait for us to be ready. She comes when everything else is fragile, because she fills the space where comfort once lived.
And so in the space where I once would have held my partner, grief came. In the moments where I would have spoken softly with him about my fears or anxieties, grief came. In my body where he would have rubbed or touched me, in my eyes where he would have seen or connected with me, grief poured herself upon me.
The absence of the comfort I seek is grief’s greatest invitation. It is her opening. And she takes it freely.
I try to fill that seat in other ways: with writing, journaling, dancing, hot tea, phone calls, therapy…I do. I make efforts to fill comfort’s chair in ways that function and serve me.
And sometimes I don’t. I lose my energy. I lose steam or faith. I lose the care I have for myself and well-being. I say fuck-it, and leave the seat empty. I let booze and food and the attention of a passer-by take a seat and entertain my company. Knowing it won’t be long before I can’t tolerate the consequence of their visits, and the chair is once again empty.
Suddenly, the comfort I so desperately need is absent. The places I pull from—whether from within or outside myself—are out of practice and far from reach.
Grief, then, takes her cue.
She trickles into the room, waltzing slowly past me, grimacing—as if to say, “I see you’ve left this seat open. Don’t mind me. I’ve come to pay you a little visit.”
Cloaked in a black and tangled web, her crooked whispy body crackles by me. In dread, I watch her cruelly place her bony frame on the empty chair. Curling her fingers together, she removes a small fragment of her cloak from her forehead, revealing herself to me. Peering at me with one eye, holding my gaze as if sucking me, slowly into her galactic hypnosis.
And then she has me.
I am paralyzed by her truth. Ripped from my stability. Catapulted from a sense of knowing and safety, and plummeted into the depths of the well where I once clawed my way out of. I am all alone in here, I’ll remember. The stench becomes all too familiar. The etches from my fingernails reminding me of the days spent in this dark hole. And the light above, that seems too far away to fathom climbing towards.
When the comfort is gone, grief comes in. She comes to remind me of the ways in which I’m alone. To mock me for my losses. To make a fool of my efforts to stay above ground.
So what do I do, then? How do I protect myself from a musical chair act so cruel and carnivorous? How do I maintain comfort so that I never again meet grief’s debilitating spell?
I have learned over the last year that there is actually nothing I can do.
Bear with me. Let me say that differently:
There is nothing I can do to prevent grief from visiting.
What I can do, is greet grief differently.
This has become the truest form of relief I have ever experienced, and something I wish I had known a decade ago when I first attended therapy.
Grief, like any other painful experience in our life, does not discriminate. Depression, anxiety, low self-esteem, trauma, mania, insecure attachment…you name it: psychological warfare does not care what you look like, who you are, or where you came from.
We can do everything in our power to prevent a depressive episode or manage stress. We can build armors of safety to reduce traumatic responses or slow the rise of manic episodes. Yes, we have tools.
And, sometimes, our tools are simply not enough.
What we can cultivate, then, is our reaction when our tools aren’t working. We can channel our response systems so that if life’s circumstances are more than we can cope with, we don’t aggravate the tidal wave that’s coming.
In a culture that operates on shame, we do not learn this lesson collectively.
Self-compassion, acceptance, grace, and rest are the softest and most sacred spaces for us to cultivate relief from suffering. These are the rooms in which grief and sorrow grow quiet. These are the nooks and crannies that grow flowers and soft grass so that depression and anxiety can rest and fade softly.
Shame—however—shame is where grief and sorrow come to play. Shame is the creator of criticism and self-harm. Shame motivates us into self-deprecation and cruelty. Shame ridicules us for our lack of tools or for drowning in the tsunami. Shame keeps us locked away, hidden and isolated, and torments us for the times when it all feels like too much.
Nothing grows under shame’s watchful eye.
When I fall deep into depression…
When anxiety fills my body so viscerally that I cannot speak without panic in my throat…
When grief robs me of my ability to connect or communicate…
I call on self-compassion.
I call on grace.
I rest.
I radically accept that I am still in mourning.
And then I wait.
I wait for the eruption of feeling to pass. I use my tools and I wait for them to start working. I do not pressure myself to “feel better faster.” I do not shame myself into moving quicker.
I call my loved ones. I write. I move my body. I sleep. I cry, I wail, and I wait.
The waiting is not passive: I use the tools at my disposal, and the waiting becomes the patient part of my self-compassionate sky. The overarching umbrella of stars that warmly cradle me as I let myself move slowly through the suffering. I allow myself to tumble and fall, because the room I’ve created is growing soft grass and warm flower petals.
I no longer operate from Shame’s toothy grip.
This is how I move through weekends like this one. Not by building ways to never feel like this again, but with tremendous self-compassion.
And so the weekend ends, and I begin to emerge the same: still me. Still knowing that life might one day hurt again, and that I can move through it safely. That if I don’t cope perfectly or have the energy or tools, it doesn’t mean I’ve failed or fallen backwards.
This is the truest form of self-care I have learned in the last 15 years of therapy and mental illness.
To practice self-compassion, I invite you to consider the following:
Treat yourself as if you were a young child.
When I am deep in the throws of depression, self-loathing, or grief, I imagine myself as a 4-year old girl. I picture myself as a small, helpless child, and I can no longer do anything but tell her how much I love her and will protect her. I tell her words like, “Oh Rachie, I know this is so hard. I know you are so sad. I’m right here with you. I will keep you company until this passes.”
When I see myself through this lens, I cannot shame or ridicule myself. I become more creative and thoughtful with what I can do to support myself: whether it’s a hot cup of oat milk, my favorite Disney movie, or cozy pajamas and petting a soft blanket. When I witness my pain as the pain of my Inner Child, I can only operate with self-compassion.
Rest.
Shame demands that we rush. Shame criticizes us for not getting better, for not healing faster, for “still feeling this way.” Self-compassion honors that we need time to heal. Self-compassion carves out space and time for rest. For re-charging. For recovering.
Imagine you have been in a physical accident: Doctors prescribe rest. Literally. The same must be true for our emotional and psychological wellness. When we are hurt emotionally, we must prescribe rest.
Permission slips.
This one has become a favorite of mine. I often struggle to give myself permission to do the above. It is easy for me to tell my friends, clients, or loved ones “you have permission to rest” or “it’s ok to be extra kind to yourself today.” But when it comes to myself, the shame-voice comes in to say “how are you still doing this?”
I have found that a verbal or written permission slip can be a powerful way to shift myself out of shame, and into grace. I will write down, “I give myself permission to rest.” “Permission Slip: One day of feeling like crap.” Whatever language resonates becomes my little permission slip.
And if you need one from someone else, know that I am giving it to you know. This is your permission. Right now, to rest, to cradle yourself with kindness, and to take a moment to visualize your room built by Self-Compassion.