Doing it for Myself

Marking my husband's birthday with a cupcake and sunflowers

As far as the 'ups and downs' of grief go, it's been a pretty tough week.  It started with what would have been Dan's 36th birthday on Monday (the second since he's been gone).  Despite coming up with a plan for the day and preparing as much as I could for the inevitable roller-coaster, the rug was well and truly pulled from underneath me.

I was ready for the pain, but not so ready for the loneliness, the sense of isolation and the anger.  I was so damn angry at him.  I haven't really felt much anger towards him throughout my grief, and it's a terrible feeling. One that, to be honest, I'm still not really ready to explore.  This might be something to go more in depth on another day.  But I was also really angry that the people still here in my life hadn't been more present for me this week, and that didn't feel very nice either.

I unpacked it with my grief counsellor yesterday. Where did this fury come from?  Why was I so mad at my friends?  Was I angry that they seemed to have forgotten me - what I was going through?  Was I angry that their partners were still here and mine wasn't? Was I just angry full stop, and they were an easy target?

I had talked about Dan's pending birthday a fair bit, so assumed that those close to me would know it would be a difficult day.  But I was surprised that only three friends sent 'thinking of you' text messages and none called, offered to visit or followed up that evening to make sure I was ok.

Quite a few of my husband's friends (who have become my friends) called or sent messages to share the day with me, some sent photos of the activities they were doing to remember him, like making a cake and talking about happier birthday from the past.  That was really nice, to know he wasn't forgotten and I wasn't the only one missing him.

My feelings were really hurt that my own friends hadn't been more involved.  It was a stark contrast to the year before - the first 'after' birthday - when everything was very raw.  I honestly felt like those around me had started to think 'well, it's been over a year and a half, she must be doing ok by now' or were, quite frankly, just bored of the same conversations about how I miss him and what we'd be doing if we were here.

I mean, hell, I'M bored of it!  Of course I'm tired of my grief, it's tedious and exhausting and not fun in any way.  So I get that my friends might be feeling a bit over it.  But there's nothing I can do about that.  This is my life now, his loss is part of me.  I'm not some miserable thing who NEVER enjoys life or looks forward to anything or who can't have a laugh, but I also can't pretend that it never happened and it doesn't still affect me.

With some hindsight, I don't necessarily think that my friends were a bit less involved on Monday because they're bored with me.  They most likely just didn't know what support I needed, didn't know how to help or what to say.  They also don't miss Das as much as I do, because they weren't his wife.  They don't feel my pain and there's no way they can know what to do with it.

But this all got me thinking about how, when I'm struggling with the grief, I have a tendency to look to the people around me to pick me up and carry me through.  What a lot to ask of them.  Not necessarily the support bit, but the fact that I seem to expect them to be able to mind-read and figure out what I need without me having to say so.  To call at the right time, or to give me space when I don't want to talk.  To talk about him - or to distract me when I just can't face it anymore.

This need to be saved almost always leaves me feeling let down, abandoned or misunderstood and that's really unfair to the people who love me and are trying to be there as much as they can.  So I need to get better at looking after myself.  At self-soothing.  Instead of looking to others for comfort or validation that my grief is 'ok' and I'm doing the right thing, I need to trust myself more, love myself more and back myself more.

I wish I could click my fingers and become this zen, chilled out, self-loving guru who sees the peace and light in everything and never doubts herself or her place in the world.  But I doesn't work like that.  The therapy sessions are helping, as is meditation, yoga and working with essential oils.

If Dan were still here I probably wouldn't have had to look this closely at myself and think so much about my lack of self-belief and insecurity.  Because his love gave me validation, his words gave me the reassurance that I now need to find within.  I know his love is still with me, but I need to look inside to find it.  I'm searching for this place of peace.  It may take me the rest of my life to reach it but, hey, I've got time.  It's not like I've got much else going on right now anyway.

Giving Counselling Another Go

 

Source

This week I tried counselling again. I am a strong advocate of therapy - not just giving it a go but, if it doesn't feel right, trying another psychologist and another until you’ve found the right fit.  I’ve had mixed success in the past but recently I decided to practice what I preach and try again.

I’m so glad I did.  One year, three months and six days after my husband’s unexpected suicide, I finally feel like someone might be able to help me find the tools I need to process the trauma of that experience.

To explain how many attempts it took me to find this fit, this was my FIFTH go with a new counsellor.  My first took place the very day after Dan died, when my best friend arranged a visit to a psychologist she found through her work’s employee assistance program.  This woman just stared at me in shock as I told her what had happened the day before.  When I finally asked her if she had any advice on how I might survive this nightmare, she feebly explained the stages of grief (failing to mention they are NOT linear!) and said I would probably feel better in a year. Wrong. I didn’t go back to see her.

In the following months I tried two others.  One of whom was fresh out of university and tried different exercises with me like ‘cognitive behavioural therapy’, which is a great tool, but way too early for me when I was still so deeply in shock and trying to make it through one day at a time. I battled on with her making me feel like I was failing her as a test case until I met counsellor number three, who ran a suicide bereavement program through a wonderful charity here in Australia called Lifeline. 

This experience was life changing and helped me to understand Dan’s illness and death in a way that brought a real sense of acceptance.  For the first time I felt like Dan’s suicide wasn’t about me or due to anything I did or didn’t do.  I also understood that it wasn’t necessarily because of anything Dan did or didn’t do - he was sick, he had a disease and he died.

I would have loved to keep meeting with this counsellor after the completion of the program but due to budget restrictions she wasn’t able to offer ongoing sessions.  However she referred me to psychologist number four, who I started seeing earlier this year. 

These sessions were good, I was able to get a lot of thoughts off my chest and it was a great outlet to vent, however I wasn’t sure if I was ‘improving’ in any way.  I always walked out feeling a bit lighter, but the same thoughts would eventually creep in.  Until one day when she asked if I was sure I wanted another appointment, because she thought I was doing so well that maybe I didn’t need counselling any more.  Well that threw me!  Was I ‘cured’?  Was I boring her or wasting her time, sitting here moaning about how I missed Dan? I mean, I knew I was functioning well, I go to work, spend time with friends, go on holidays, etc, but I’m still deeply grieving and have regular moments of being confused and overwhelmed.  So I figured maybe I didn’t need counselling any more and stopped going.

Until two months ago, a new doctor that I’d found closer to my work suggested I give it another go.  I knew I still had a lot of work to do.  I cry often, I have days where I don’t want to participate in the world and the emptiness is deep.  I have flash backs and haunting questions and reoccurring doubts and guilt but, after that last experience, I wasn’t sure if I needed more counselling or if I just needed more time. 

So that brings me back to this week.  After a particularly tough few days I thought I’d give it another shot.  I called the office on Monday and they happened to have an available appointment Thursday afternoon.  I went in and re-told the horrible story about the day he died, the months leading up to it, our love story and what my life has been like since.  As much as it was painful to re-live the finer details of his death, there was a release again, as I sat and sobbed in this stranger’s comfortable chair. 

When I finally stopped talking, I looked at her through my tear-stained eyes and said, ‘Is this normal?  Is there something wrong with me?’.  Her reply was just what I needed to hear.  While confirming that there was nothing ‘wrong’ about where I am at the moment, she explained that my brain has definitely been affected by the shock of what I’ve been through.  She said after such a significant trauma, my understanding of how the world works would have been shattered - causing me to lose trust in logic and ‘right and wrong’.  The good news was that there is work we can do to help calm my racing mind, rebuild that trust and help me long-term.   

My relief was overwhelming.  First of all, to have someone say something other than ‘you’re so strong, you’re doing so well’ and actually acknowledge that there’s a reason I still don’t feel ok was so validating.  Secondly, to hear that there is actually help – that there are things I can actively do to process the pain in my heart and the mess in my head, rather than JUST sitting and waiting (which still plays a significant part in the healing process) was also wonderful.

I’m glad I gave it another shot and tried again to find the ‘right’ counsellor for my particular, unique little bundle of grief.  Maybe this will be the long-term counsellor relationship I’m looking for.  Or maybe again I’ll find out that it’s not quite the best fit.  If it doesn’t work out, I am going to come back and read this post and remind myself again that it’s worth it to keep looking.  

My own worst enemy

The better past of last Sunday was spent laying in bed crying... while the cat persisted in trying to comfort me

I feel like I’ve been in a rut for more than a month now, since Dan’s first anniversary.  I’ve had days here and there where I’ve been able to smile and actually mean it, but in general, the pain has been very deep and the ache for him, overwhelming.

The grief has been so relentless that it’s started messing with my head and making me question if I was doing something wrong.  If I’d gotten stuck in it some how. Was I doing enough to keep moving forward? 

I mean, I know this dance well by now, the three-steps-forward, two-steps-back tango.  I know I need to keep my expectations realistic and that this is a marathon, not a sprint.  I know that I can’t project manage my way out of this, yet in the dark of the night when the tears won’t slow and my heart feels like it’s going to stop beating from the sheer agony, I forget that this moment will pass and I’ll take steps forward again.

I just don’t understand why I’m this hard on myself.  Losing your spouse in such tragic circumstances, so young and early into our lives together, would have to be up there with the one of the most terrible experiences anyone could be forced to endure.  Yet I can’t seem to give myself permission to stumble. 

As the weeks pass and I continue to put this pressure and expectation on myself, it has started to mount into feelings of guilt and inadequacy.  I worry that I’m bringing everyone around me down and taking up so much of their energy with my constant state of fragile melancholy.

So this week I spent a lot of time contemplating how and why I’m so hard on myself.   I think that sometimes I have trouble understanding the difference between accepting that there are going to be bad days where I don’t want to face the world; and just wallowing in my sorrow to the point where it becomes an excuse not to try anymore.  I know I have to be gentle with myself – but where is that line between acceptable self-care; and just using my grief as a shield against anything unpleasant or moderately challenging.  Does that make sense?

Don't get me wrong, I know there's no set answer. This pondering is more rhetorical than actually looking for a response. When I think about my grief and whether I'm 'doing it right' - there is no fair bench mark to asses myself against. Because everyone's grief is different. 

I can't look at what seems to be working for a friend and try to apply it to my situation because we're not fighting the same battle. No one can actually tell me if I'm grieving appropriately because it's MY grief, I'm the only one who knows it and feels it, so I'm the only person who can truly answer that question. That's the crux of my conundrum ... I don't seem to trust myself to make that call!

On Thursday, the psychologist who runs a local suicide bereavement counselling program and support group that I became involved in a couple of months after Dan died, called me to check in.  I told her that I’m doing ok, but was struggling with this concept of ‘am I grieving appropriately’.

I confessed to her that some days I just don’t know what to do with myself.  I just sit in the loneliness and cry for hours and think ‘I’m so sick of this sadness, I don’t want this life for me.  I hate this pain.  Despite the fact that I’ve been carrying it around with me for 13 months, I still have such a long road ahead of me and it’s just not fair.’ 

She replied that of course I’m sick of it, of course it’s not fair.   My husband died and how else am I supposed to feel? It doesn’t mean that I’m broken or there’s something wrong with me.  I’m grieving and it’s horrible.  She pointed out that everyone around me is giving me more acceptance and understanding that I’m granting myself. 

She reminded me of the progress I’ve made since those first few months.  I don’t cry at work as much; I’ve travelled; I’ve taken up new hobbies and made new friends. 

She pointed out that while I have bad days, I also have good days.  And on those good days, while I might take steps to keep life simple, I don’t use Dan’s death as an excuse for a free pass. 

Being reminded of that really helped.   I actually think I’m going to print it off and stick it to my fridge.  Widowhood is such hard work.  So many life lessons all being shoved in my face at the same time, it’s exhausting and overwhelming trying to take it all in. 

Plus, my memory isn’t the best right now so I forget a lot of things… like the fact that it’s ok to be this dreadfully sad and that there will be more good days. 

If only I could have that breakthrough and learn to trust myself. Like my counsellor said, if only I saw what others saw - and if only I gave myself the grace and compassion that was being shown to me by the people around me.