"You're really good at grieving..." is a weird piece of feedback I've gotten a lot. I want to share what it is that I do in case it's useful, but even more so, I want to illuminate what I mean when I say, "My success depends on my ability to fail well."
When I’m grieving, I’m like an animal or a baby. Out of necessity, I have to stay very near to my body. I know when I’m in a reprieve, when my sensations are placid and my mind is at ease. In those periods, I let myself rest and I don’t ask much of myself.
And I've gotten very good at noticing the first contraction, the first subtle stab, the start of the slow churn in my belly. I know what’s coming, and I also know that I’m a “co-regulator,” which means that, for the most part, I process my emotions and regulate my nervous system better when I’m in connection with a close and trusted loved one.
I happen to live with two of my best friends, and I have a collection of close and cherished souls on my speed dial. So I reach out to whomever my heart is asking for (or whomever is nearest), and it takes less than a second for them to know what’s up with me.
I let my face express the pain fully and I let my voice crack. I point to my heart and say, “It’s hurting again,” or “I need help,” or if I can’t manage words, I just say, “Ow.” They reach back to me immediately, whether it’s with their hands or just their voice, and I allow my body to crumple, I let the tears flow, and I let the raw sounds of heartbreak tear out of my chest like flames leaping from a bonfire.
I don’t try to shield myself in any way, I completely surrender to the savage helplessness of the contorted body, the screwed up face, the snot, the ragged breathing, the loudness. I let the sensations rage through me without any resistance, because I know by now that I don’t really have a choice.
I’ve also learned that I have to translate that raw sensation and emotion into language. It doesn’t matter if it’s illogical or incomplete, and it doesn’t matter if some other part of me knows that what I’m saying isn’t true. Right inside of the sobs, I choke out stuff like this:
~ My heart is breaking; it hurts so bad
~ I’m afraid it won’t stop; I’m afraid it’ll never stop
~ I can’t do this; I’m scared
~ It’s not fair; I hate this
~ I don’t understand; I don’t want this
~ Was it my fault? Did I do something wrong?
~ I’m so f****** angry!! AAAHHHHH!!!!!!
~ I feel empty inside; I feel so bad about myself
~ I’m afraid there’s something wrong with me, that I’ll never get this right
~ I don’t care about anything anymore; nothing means anything
And this is where the person helping me places their hand somewhere on my body, looks into my eyes (for the brief moments they’re not squeezed shut), beams their love towards me, and says the simple, reassuring things I need to hear, “Everybody feels this way in grief. It won’t last forever. You’re doing a really good job. You are so loved and soon enough, you’ll remember that for yourself.”
I can comfort myself in this way if I need to, but it’s a lot harder. So it is humbling to witness the depth of my need in these moments, and even more humbling to witness their support flowing into my body like medicine to soothe the burned spots.
It’s usually only ten minutes long, start to finish, believe it or not. The body can’t maintain that level of intensity for long (though it could endure the slow-churn of repressed pain for a long time if I asked it to). And when I let the waves come whenever they do, when I surrender to not knowing how many days or weeks or months this will be my reality, I’m always surprised by how quickly I’m back on my feet altogether.
When life brings me to my knees and I am in serious need of support, I tend to think that it’s my job to make that very clear and obvious. Let me put it this way: in times when I’m not the one who is grieving but am caught up in other kinds of stress or hardship, if another human being openly and vulnerably expresses their pain and their need, my heart will almost always turn on a dime (all by itself) and suddenly generate some love to give them. It can even lift me out of my dark cloud, out of myself, which always feels like Grace.
But (and I don’t admit this enthusiastically), if I’m really stuck in my own s*** and I can kind of sense that this other person is in pain but they’re not showing it, not reaching for me, sometimes I can’t lift myself out of myself by myself and come up with the support they’re needing.
Maybe it has something to do with mirror neurons, but when we see that raw, helpless, hurting heart in another person, it mobilizes something in our heart and the response flows naturally. So in a weird way, being willing to be such a mess and so utterly vulnerable is like holding up my end of the deal: I’m making it easier to help me and I’m making it clear what I need.
In truth, the person who struggles the most with grief, loss, and heartbreak is the little girl who’s still very much a part of me (and always will be). These big waves of emotion are not unlike the tempests that roar through the bodies of the little ones. So it only seems honest to me to let myself become her for a moment, to let her be seen, and to let others respond to her just as she is. That is part of (the adult) me loving her, too.
It has taken me a long time to learn all of this, and even longer to practice it. The pieces I have had to accept and integrate over time are:
~ When grief comes, I am powerless to stop it. It is ok to be helpless sometimes
~ I can’t be the only one helping myself; at some point, I need help from someone else too
~ Life will bring every person to their knees at some point; it’s a sign that I really tried for something
~ The people who love me want to help me; often, it feels good to them to be able to do that
~ Falling apart and asking for help is strength, not weakness
~ Taking in the help is not selfishness, it’s a gift that’s meant for me
~ Sometimes, sharing myself this way winds up being a gift for them, too
~ We all have a little one inside, and we can tend to them the way we would an actual child
Whether the grief is heartbreak, loss, or a perceived “failure,” this same process applies. What I’ve learned is that the degree to which I can fully fall apart and fully receive support is also the degree to which I can be creative and brave with my life:
~ If I want to do or create something meaningful, I won't be able to do it with only the resources that exist in my one little body.
~ If I'm afraid of pain and am playing it safe, constantly mitigating danger, I will slow my own roll.
~ If I don’t fully metabolize the energy of my grief, pain, or loss, I wind up carrying around little emotional sandbags that weigh down my heart, mind, and body.
~ Every time I live through another heartbreak and discover that not only have I reassembled myself, but I have even more powers than I had before, I grow my courage to take on even bigger challenges.
So it’s not an exaggeration to say that my success depends on my ability to fail well.
