Today’s Lessons in Grief: It’s okay to talk

I’ve heard from a number of people in response to my (semi) public grief. There’s a common thread in each of these lines: a proverbial sigh of relief that I’ve dared to discuss some of these things so openly.

I realize, perhaps, my experience is not the norm. Let’s face it, when it comes to grief, I’ve got some Harry Potter-level claim to it (no, my parents were not destroyed by a dark wizard, but volume is a key shared aspect). My first notable death that left me forever changed occurred just as I turned 18. There were others that before that hurt, but this was the first to shake me to my core. I celebrated my entrance into adulthood at a graveside service for a 15-year old boy, a brother of a good friend that was like family to me. These things leave a mark.

I mourned deeply – heavily – during that time. I was convinced grief would destroy me from the inside out and the pain was as much physical as it was emotional. Fortunately, I had close friendships with Penny and Joe, who knew grief well. It was their loving support and shared pain of horrific loss that got me through it. I journaled, writing poems documenting my healing and drew to convey my grief. I learned early on to talk about it.

In the years since, I’ve lost a lot of people. Some of this is associating with an older demographic, but some of it reflects culture as well. I’ve lost people to drugs, suicide, and lack of sustained access to appropriate healthcare. Each of these losses have hurt in their own ways for their own reasons. I’ve helped ill friends, in part due to my interpreting skills, but also because I can navigate the health system. I can also watch people vomit, see blood, give injections, and not flinch. I can explain many aspects of biology and anticipate various symptoms. This makes me highly desirable and comforting when people are ill. This also means I see an outsize number of deaths in contrast to others.

As a society, we fear discussing death. Moreover, we are biologically wired to think we have some magic power preventing us from dying. The dichotomy of the human mind is a wonder all to itself. We recognize as a species we’ll die, but can work some incredible mental gymnastics around the fact that we, as individuals, will die too. As such, many of us go out of our way when it comes to discussing, let alone thinking about, mourning. Perhaps, it’s almost as if such grief feels like the first step towards acknowledging our own mortality. It also adds to the isolation of those experiencing grief, rendered as a silent contract to not discuss it. EVER. In no such allusions or form.

The reality is we live until we die, even in the face of terminal illness or other horrors. And those of us that outlive others, we too go on: forever changed indeed, but we live, find joy, and have lives, despite the pain and losses. And perhaps that’s the crux of it: I knew what to expect. I knew this one would hurt like hell and I’m not even interested in faking or hiding it. Perhaps, in my sharing, I will be someone else’s Penny or Joe, bringing some wisdom or solace to various unspeakable losses.

Many cultures recognize mourning is a transient process. Sure, there’s the literal first year, but grief ebbs and tides. Small incidental things trigger it, such as a news article I’d love to share, or the fact I now have to rant to my cat, who is far less funny about all of it. Perhaps I write more, but less about subjects people expect or desire.

Yet, I know these bits resonate for some people, those perhaps too afraid to mention it in general spaces, but indeed, they’re experiencing small bits of pain in the world due to loss. In the United States, the reflex is often to medicate away any emotional discomfort. We have become uncomfortable discussing emotions on the “blue side” of the emotional wheel, lest you be labelled as anything less than chipper. To know happiness of any depth is to know pain. Harry Potter shows this. And yet, we can accept Harry will always be different than others less marked by death.

I too am marked forever by deaths. The mark is perhaps less obvious, but it’s there, detectable only by others who have had a big death. We can talk about it. If we really want to get sassy, we can even joke about it. Humor, as terrifying as it is, helps.

I miss those who I’ve lost. I have gaps in routines, a severe deficiency in general laughter, and a frustration that society is terrible at supporting grief. But, perhaps more than that, I struggle with how we view life, rather than death. All too often, we get lost in the minutiae of how to avoid struggle, connection, and all things messy or uncomfortable. It’s easier to discuss simple things like the weather or, yes, Tableau. It’s harder to talk about life, the way we see it, and – dare it say it – some of those less happy things like sadness or loss.

I’m learning – again – how to live without someone critical to my world. I expected this, so parts are easier and my expectations are lower. And, yes, I’m going to keep talking about it.

To all the Harry Potters that lived.