And so this week’s moment of happiness despite the news.
Four words (well, technically, three words because one word was used twice) were presented to me this week which provided a huge moment of, if not happiness, then great relief. My feeling is that most people will see these words and wonder why they brought happiness or relief. They were:
Traumatic grief. Complex grief.
Why the relief? Because suddenly, what I’ve been feeling has been identified, defined…and I’m not the only one. Which means I’m not going crazy.
Having raised an autistic daughter, I’ve been exposed over and over again to the word “spectrum”. No matter what my daughter did or didn’t do, no matter if what she was doing or not doing was done or not done by tons of other children identified with autism, she was on the spectrum. Olivia is twenty-four now, and as I watched her grow, I also watched the word “spectrum” grow. It seemed to be applied to just about everything as the years went by.
And now…grief is also on a spectrum. I am on a spectrum.
From the time of Michael’s accident (January 17, 2024) to now, I have had so many wide-eyed realizations in the middle of feeling like maybe I finally had a handle on things. I don’t think I’ll ever forget sitting at my writing table in the little house on the Oregon coast last summer, watching out the window as a couple I’d just spoken to as I took my morning walk moved down the beach. They’d told me they were there, celebrating their thirtieth anniversary. Me, with my lack-of-filter mouth, blurted out that I would have been celebrating my twenty-fifth anniversary, but my husband just died, which, of course, put a pall on the conversation. They couldn’t get away fast enough.
Tucked back in the house, watching them walk away, I suddenly felt that the word “died” wasn’t right. And that’s when I got hit upside the head with the realization that my husband didn’t die. He was killed.
And from there, it was like all the kinds of death just unfolded themselves in a list behind my eyelids. Old age. Natural causes. Illness. An accident caused by the person who died. Murder.
And then Michael. Dead because he was killed by a negligent driver who not only struck him with his passenger van, but then ran over him with all four tires.
Killed.
Out loud in that little house, with only the ocean to talk to, I said, “No wonder I’m so angry.”
I am someone who is, unfortunately, a perfectionist, and who always wants to do things right. Since Michael’s death in June, I have struggled hard with trying to figure out what is the right way to grieve. From people around me, lovely people, I’ve heard all sorts of things. I’ve been told I’m strong, when I don’t feel strong. I’ve been told I’m amazing, when I feel anything but. I was asked how I could stand up in front of a huge crowd, celebrating my studio’s 20th birthday, and read both a section from Michael’s forever unfinished novel and poetry that I’ve written about this experience without breaking down. Which made me wonder if I was expected to burst into tears. Or maybe I was supposed to stop and apologize and say I was unable to go on. I’ve also been told I seem removed, which made me further wonder just how I was supposed to appear.
And then, of course, a few weeks ago, I was told I was in “pity city”, a phrase which pretty much tipped me over the edge.
To the people closest to me, I’ve asked, “What am I supposed to do? Who am I supposed to be?”
And the answer is usually the same: “Just keep on being yourself.”
But when “pity city” hit, I felt like I was failing grief. How in the world do you fail grief? But I somehow was. At that point, I didn’t see myself as on a “spectrum”. I saw myself as alone. And abnormal.
I am definitely experiencing lighter days. Which is wonderful. But then I still had a day last week where I realized, as soon as I opened my eyes in the morning, that I was not going to be able to get out of bed. And, if I did get out of bed, I was going to be worthless. There would be no talking to me on that day. Luckily, it was a day off for me (and one thing I’ve noticed is that these bad days do seem to appear mostly on my days off…maybe because that’s when I can allow the bad days in?). However, I did have an event scheduled that day, where I was to be speaking before an audience. There was just no way. When I talked to my dog that morning, it was in a whisper. That was the most I could do. And so I canceled.
Which I never do.
Not only am I on the spectrum of grief, but I am on a spectrum of emotion. They change, minute by minute. And they are all, apparently, okay.
So this week, I spoke with someone who specializes in grief recovery, and not only that, she lost her partner years ago in a similar fashion to Michael. When she explained traumatic grief and complex grief to me, I recognized myself and what I’ve been feeling so clearly, I might as well have been looking in a mirror.
The definition of traumatic grief: Traumatic grief, also known as traumatic bereavement, occurs when a death or loss is experienced in a highly distressing or shocking way, leading to symptoms beyond typical grief. In addition to typical grief symptoms like sadness and longing, individuals with traumatic grief may experience intrusive thoughts and memories about the loss and the circumstances surrounding it; hypervigilance or heightened awareness of potential threats; difficulty processing the loss and accepting the reality of the death; emotional dysregulation, such as intense anger, anxiety, or detachment; and physical symptoms, like shakiness, nausea, or trouble breathing.
And this gave me my Moment how? Because it means I’m not going crazy. It means I can do things, like get up in front of a large audience and read Michael’s work, and then have a day where I can’t get out of bed. It means I can seem removed to one person, but then have my eyes fill with tears at an offhand comment by someone else.
It means I’m okay, even when I’m not. And it means I’m going to be okay too.
There is so much to learn.
And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.
