Self-deception and crying

I have been reflecting a lot this week (and it’s only Wednesday!), and I have come to the conclusion that I have, probably, been trying to deceive myself…

On Sunday morning I woke up feeling sad, not for any particular reason, I just felt sad. Perhaps, a more honest way of putting it is that I felt sadder than what is, now, just the usual background sadness and, perhaps, I noticed it more as I have had some less sad days recently. It didn’t occur to me not to go to church, which it might have done previously, so I went along as usual. The Gospel reading was about the raising of Lazarus, and the sermon was about emotions, what happens when we hit the wall and reach our emotional capacity, and the communal owning of grief and holding of pain. Our minister also mentioned that, as well as crying for the loss of his friend, Lazarus, Jesus might also have been crying for himself, which I found helpful, as I do sometimes think this regarding myself (I feel bad / guilty when I see all the terrible things that are going on in the world and yet I am consumed by my own grief, such an insignificant thing in comparison to that which others are experiencing). I have to admit my concentration started to wane as my emotions were rising, but I think one of the points being made was that resurrection is part of this life and something we can all be part of; eternal life is ours now. Our minister ended by saying ‘The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness does not overcome it’, something I try to hang on to, but not always successfully. Anyway, I didn’t cry, and I was rather pleased about that (somewhat conversely, considering the sermon!); I thought “I’ve got through it; I’ve made it to the end. You must be improving”! Well, perhaps, I should have cried, as the day became harder. There was nothing particularly difficult about the day itself, just that my sadness was creeping up inside me. If I’m honest, I also felt partly angry, as I thought ‘this is all very well, but I’m sad, I’m grieving, where’s the communal grief surrounding me?’. I hesitate to even write this, as so many friends have been so very supportive, but I was in a sad / bad place on Sunday. And, if you had asked me what support I wanted, in honesty, I would probably have had to answer that I don’t know. Or, perhaps, the answer is that I just don’t want to feel alone but, clearly, nobody can replace B. It’s the feeling that I get that others can’t possibly understand the sense of loss that I am feeling (how could they?), and yet that is what I want - an impossibility! - for others to know what it feels like. At one point, I nearly asked someone for a hug but I knew, that if I did, I would cry, and probably just cry and cry and cry. How embarrassing would that be?! So, I did my best to just get through the day and that’s what I did when I got home later. I cried for most of the evening, I cried in bed, I cried when I woke up at 4.30 am. But, perhaps, that is what I needed…

On Monday, I cancelled lunch with some friends, partly because I felt so wretched, but partly because I needed to be on my own. And it was the right thing to do (I’m an introvert – perhaps, I shouldn’t even try to be with people when I feel sad…), by the evening I felt re-centred, and I was able to enjoy going to choir practice.

Anyway, this episode set me thinking, and I came to some conclusions. First, in the end, grief is lonely and, let me just say, this isn’t about being on my own, I’m okay about that, it’s about being without B. Also, I am the only one who can get me through this, and this feels a hard lesson, although, obviously I need (and appreciate) all the support I can get. Of course, I already knew this, but perhaps it helps to say it out loud or, at least, to see it in writing (!), although it doesn’t help me feel any less disconsolate about it. Secondly, I realised that I have probably been trying to deceive myself. A year (more now) has passed since B died, since he hasn’t been here with me, and, perhaps, in my head, I just wanted / expected to feel magically ‘better’, after all, I had had those few days with my family when I felt more like my old self. Perhaps, I placed an expectation on myself that I would, somehow, now feel less morose, and that I would be able to control my feelings better, but of course it doesn’t work like that! Yes, it’s over a year since B died, but the sense of devastating loss remains. Certainly, it’s less raw now, but the void is still there. B is not here, he is no longer part of my life (except, of course, he remains a huge part of it, just in a different way!). And, as Sunday demonstrates, in the end my feelings will come out somehow, and sometimes not very prettily. I know I’m not very good at sharing my feelings and, probably worse, that I am now trying to hide them away when I’m with others. This is one of the reasons my blog helps me so much, it’s cathartic writing this stuff down. It’s easier to write it than say it. What I haven’t worked out, though, is how, or even whether, I try to tell people how I am really feeling. It feels very risky: ‘Will they get fed up of me; If I don’t get a helpful response I could end up feeling worse; How will I make them feel?; etc, etc.’. On Sunday evening, I had got to the point where I thought, ‘perhaps, I just won’t go back to church, again; perhaps, I’ll go somewhere else where people don’t know me, where I don’t feel so exposed, so lonely’ (oddly, it somehow seems easier to be in a place where I can be anonymous). The idea of communal grief sounds good, but it also seems easier said than done - a lot of trust, and vulnerability, is required and that can be hard. Sometimes, it’s just feels easier to try and get through…

On a more positive note, there have been a couple of things that have helped me this week. Firstly, I have heard a couple of people (wish I could remember who) point out that it is not possible to control our feelings. This gives me no end of comfort, as I have often wondered ‘why on earth can’t I just stop feeling like this?’ My subsequent thought, is ‘well, if I can’t control how I feel, why can’t I just stop myself from crying?’ I’ve always been a crier, and I don’t like it, but there you go. This, though, leads me on to the other helpful thing. I was watching a programme by Mary Beard about, of all things, crying. One of the points that was made was that we say, ‘I had a good cry’. We don’t say ‘I had a bad cry’. It reminded me that, in the end, that soggy, snotty mess is actually therapeutic, despite the fact that it is horrible while it is happening. There is a reason that we cry!

So, I’m now in a better place, and hopefully I have benefited from all of this. I’m not sure that it will make life any easier, and it probably won’t change how I react when I feel wretched, although I can hope. Hopefully, though, it’s another step in facing up to my grief, recognising that it is only a year and that I still have some way to go.

[Just in case any of my church friends are reading this, this is about me, not you. The reason I feel lonely and dejected is because B is not with me, and not because of anything you have or haven’t done. I really appreciate the support you give me week-in, week-out and, as you can see, I still need it!]