Grief Is… So Griefy
Grief, a mentor of mine once said, “is so griefy,” and at the time I was a bit annoyed because I didn’t really feel understood.
And then I got it.
It is hard to be understood in grief.
This conversation was years ago after my dad had suddenly died and I was trying to process what it meant to line up the reality of him being suddenly gone, and that life now would go on a new pathway, much the same as my other path:
In parenting, my private practice, marriage…
and yet, without him adding new information or experiences on that path.
|
|
|
The Finality of Loss
When we lose someone, their absence is felt in different ways depending on how woven-in they were to our day-to-day life.
But even when you weren’t in daily contact with the person, the loss still has weight.
It’s the finality.
There will never be any more contributions. No new memories. No new input. No new actions from that person. The history becomes finite.
And that’s why it can feel like such a gift when someone shares a story you didn’t know—some detail from the past that gives you a fresh angle on a person you can no longer ask. It’s like finding a lost clip of film.
I love it when a friend mentions a memory from my home growing up and an interaction they had with my mom. I can place it instantly, the layout, the light in the room, the particular feeling of that era and then their memory overlays mine like a scene I get to watch.
It’s a snippet of joy. A found nugget. Golden.
|
|
Saying Their Name Doesn’t Cause the Pain
Many people avoid talking about the person who has died because they don’t want to “remind” someone and cause pain.
But generally, it could not be more different.
We didn’t forget.
We are not suddenly thrust into the knowledge of that loss all over again because someone said their name. The loss is already here, living in the body and the daily routines.
If anything, saying their name, and remembering them out loud, can be a way of keeping pages from fading.
Grief is not just sadness. It’s also a kind of love-keeping.
|
When the Loss Is Suicide
In the work I do, I’ve witnessed many kinds of endings: sudden deaths, long illnesses, losses people saw coming and losses that cracked the ground open. I’ve also heard from clients about planned deaths, situations where someone with a degenerative illness chose an assisted death and gathered people to say goodbye.
Even in those situations, where there is preparation, people struggle. Our bodies and minds still buck up against the truth: I will never see you again in this life.
Suicide is different in its impact. A determined act doesn’t just remove a person from their own timeline, it explodes through everyone else’s.
A sudden, surprising suicide appeared in my life recently. I had never even entertained the idea that this person would be gone. And to be honest, it wasn’t only the loss of this person that hit me hardest. It was the tsunami of pain, angst, rage, and heartbreak pummeling the shores of the people left behind.
What We Know About Suicidal Pain
They say that suicide is a permanent solution to a temporary problem. It’s a phrase that tries to explain something that is often impulsive and inexplicable. What I’ve learned, over and over, is that many people who consider suicide don’t actually want to die, they want to feel different than they feel in that moment. They want the suffering to stop.
Jenny Lawson, author of Furiously Happy states, ‘Depression Lies’, when she is struggling in her neurotypical brain and depression is telling her all kinds of unhelpful things. Her insights help many folks feel more grounded in knowing they are not alone when they are stuck in a depression loop or mind eddy as I call them.
As mental health professionals, we’re trained to ask directly about suicide. Say the word. Be clear. Ask about thoughts, plans, and methods—not to “put the idea in someone’s head,” but to bring the fear into the light where it can be held and responded to.
Sometimes, when someone speaks the plan out loud, something shifts. They can hear themselves. They can feel the reality of what they’re considering. They can begin to reach for other options and ultimately, other ways to survive the moment.
We also ask about reasons to live. Often people name their kids, their partner, their family, their dog, their students, their best friend. Sometimes simply letting the mind touch the image of the aftermath, their people sitting in shock, interrupts the tunnel vision long enough for help to get in.
|
|
The Window for Intervention
Research suggests the suicidal process is often brief—sometimes minutes. One study found that nearly half of people who survived a suicide attempt reported that the time between the first current thought of suicide and the attempt was 10 minutes or less. Another study found that while the median process time was about 30 minutes, about a quarter of people reported two hours or more; a window where support, interruption, or connection might have more room to land.
Different studies find slightly different timeframes because people, situations, and methods vary but, the shared takeaway is the same: the acute window can be very short, and sometimes there’s still a meaningful window where interruption and support can help.
|
If you are reading this and you’re struggling: you deserve support.
You are not a burden.
You are a human in pain, and pain is treatable, even when it’s loud.
*Resources listed below.
Motherhood Makes It All Sharper
I’m a mom of teen boys. I talk with them about big topics: sex, substances, big feelings, sensitivity, what to do when life is hard and you don’t know what to do. I try not to be the person who says, “Everything will always be okay.”
I try to be truthful that life is about choices, and that we are the only person we will be with every day for the rest of our lives, so we have to learn how to live with ourselves.
So, I talk about suicide as well. It is hard because I lean into the myth that if I bring it up, they will do it. We often think similarly about the other big topics as well.
I also tell them I love them and value them every chance I get.
Because somewhere in the background is the thought no parent wants to carry: Did I tell them they matter enough?
When my kids need to change their behavior, I try (imperfectly, painstakingly) to focus on the behavior, not their identity. I try not to use words like “lazy.” I try not to say “you are…” as a label. I try to say, “This isn’t safe,” or “This won’t work with roommates,” or “This isn’t how we treat people.”
And still, I’m human. I want their love and approval in ways that are not always helpful for parenting. I try to balance this daily, clumsily.
Where the Urgency Comes From
The urgency in me has a history
I’ve been told, “Not everything needs to be a lesson.” I smile when I write that, but it can sting, especially when I’m tender and trying to do my best.
Sometimes my ego flares. Sometimes I hear echoes of my father. Sometimes I feel the urgency: I have to do this now or it won’t happen.
That urgency has roots.
I grew up in a family where we didn’t talk about feelings, unless it was anger. Often it was about how angry my dad would be. My mom’s energy was frequently about avoiding his wrath, avoiding the truth being known, protecting us from the explosion.
Never did I think I could have a hopeful, helpful conversation with my father about a mistake or a struggle. We were taught to fix problems first, and then maybe tell him later, if we absolutely had to. Or better yet… could we keep it to ourselves forever?
I still feel that old wiring sometimes. When a family member brings something up, a part of me becomes ten years old again, needing to explain, needing to fix, needing to avoid shame.
And I was, at times, mocked for being sensitive. That younger me still lives close to the surface at times. She shows up beside the 50 something-year-old me. She’s sad, hurt, angry, and trying to decide if she’s safe to be seen.
What I’m Learning
Grief is griefy. That’s still true.
And I’m learning this, too: avoiding the name doesn’t protect anyone from pain.
Love requires witness. Memory is a kind of medicine.
Speaking the truth gently, and letting it be held, matters.
If you’re walking through grief, I hope you get “found clips” from the people who knew your person.
I hope someone says their name without flinching.
I hope you get to keep what mattered.
And if you’re in the kind of pain that makes you wonder if you can stay: please reach for help.
You don’t have to hold that alone.
With warmth,
Audrianna Joy
|
|
|
