Joy! And Backlash. It Happens.

Dear Grief,

Fuck you.

No, really.

Fuck you and the window you flew out of.

Fuck you for causing me to use language that others may read and will ruin my reputation as a sweet girl.  I used to be a sweet girl.

Fuck you.

Yes, I'm angry. I'm angry because you are insatiable. You take and take and take and at some point, isn't it just enough?

Yesterday I put on my red boots and walked 6 blocks in the rain through the latter part of the alphabet to a neighborhood coffee shop:

Northrup.
Overton.
Pettygrove.
Quimbly.
Raleigh.
Savier.
Thurman.
turn right.

There. Dragonfly Coffee House. I ordered a latte and a breakfast bar and took an available seat in front of the sugar/water/cream counter, facing the door, and catching the rush of cold air each time someone new came in.

It was here I came to write. I came to write about the lightness felt while traveling to Gareth's home last month. I came to write about the many people I connected with while there. Family. Friends. Teachers. Writers. Flatmates. God-seekers. I came to write about what it was like to return to my "normal" self: to eat and want to do so, to go for long morning runs and have the energy to do it, to laugh until my belly ached, to dance in the kitchen while cleaning.

I wrote about setting grief down at the door of Gareth's home. I wrote about the absence of deep grief. I wrote about joy.

I sorted through photo albums to find pictorial evidence of what I remembered being so wonderful. And there they were; photos of me laughing, embracing people, smiling, enjoying. It's obvious. It really happened.

I ended the piece with an exclamation mark.

!

"No one can never accuse you of not making a difference!"

I published the post. I shared it with friends.

Look at me! I'm experiencing joy!

"I am ready for this life without you. With pieces of you woven in. And traces of you in things to come," I wrote.

I wrote those words. And I felt them.  I can do this. And everything is ok.

Hours later the shame began rolling in like an undetected and silent storm. Something felt strange. Something felt wrong.

By the time I tucked myself into the twin bed in the room I'm sharing with my friend's pre-teen daughter, I was mortified that I had shared this writing with others, let alone even written it at all.

Grief was back. It was dark and heavy and damp. And this time it had a voice:

You think you were connected? Connected? Ha! Ooooh. Look at you! Look at you with all of those people. What's so special about you? That you connect? That you had fun? You're pathetic. 

And I couldn't stop it.

What do you think you're going to do now, huh? Just travel around and "connect" with everyone?

It was mocking me.

You think that makes you happy? Do you think you're happy? Have you forgotten who you are? 

It was causing me to doubt myself.

And now look! Brilliant! You broadcasted it to the world, so now everyone thinks you're all better. You thought you were all better. They're celebrating now. They're celebrating a lie. 

And it came at me from every angle.

Gareth's dad said he hoped you could move on. Gareth's mum noted your joy. Everyone saw a different you. And you can't sustain it. Only now, you're coming up on the year mark and no one's going to want to hear your sob story anymore. You're time is up. Session is over. Compassion expired. 

Is that true? It can't be true. Why does it sound so convincing?

Everyone's going to see how weak you are. How you must like being miserable. Oh, and by the way, Gareth's gone and not coming back. He's dead. Integrate him into your life? Integrate him? Oh, how sickeningly sweet. You're misguided. You're naive. You're done for. 

By morning I'd wished I could have just gone back and erased it all. How jarring to have your genuine self questioned. I thought I was in deep joy, and Grief's backlash caused me to doubt that it was ever so.

Enter Megan Devine. And if you've been a frequent visitor to my blog, my story, my series of events, you'll know I happened upon her while searching the internet for support in those first few weeks after Gareth died. I found first her website, then her audiobook "When Everything is Not Okay." and finally ended up taking her 30-day writing course.

As a person who experienced the sudden drowning death of her partner, she got it. All of it. And her background as a therapist, a writer, and an artist made what she had to share incredibly accessible. She didn't have answers. She didn't tell me everything would be ok. She acknowledged the great abyss of loss and that's exactly what I needed.

As it turns out, she moved to Portland, where I currently am visiting my good friend Maud. When Megan learned of Maud's cancer re-diagnosis and need to go through chemo yet again, she was quick to made a food delivery in my name. Not much could be done from Korea, where I am living, and having Megan and Maud together in one space- these two women who have played incredibly pivotal roles in my life- was a great source of comfort.

Fast forward a few months to present day. After a friend's suggestion and a bit of financial support, I was encouraged to make a short trip out here to be with Maud and her family before I return to work at the end of the month. And it is here that Megan and I got to meet in person for the first time.

Today we met for lunch, and besides the fact that she's even more adorable in person than on the internet (I think I told her that she looked like a cute little warm muffin right from the oven), she was able to effortlessly flow through conversational topics as everyday as hair care and as deep as what it's like to feel attracted to someone years after her partner died.

We had lunch at a little mediterranean place and then walked in a random pattern on the grid of Portland's downtown streets. We sought out a sanctuary to send our good thoughts to a grieving member of the writing community and held cups of hot coffee in our hands. We waited at lights and crossed streets and stepped down curbsides and stepped back up again. We were asked for change twice, once while we stood still on the sidewalk pointing out where on our faces grief has aged us the most. We laughed some and each teared up once, both at different times.

with Megan Divine and a blurry lady walking by

"Love is not pink and fluffy and soft. Love is not Valentine's Day. Love is disconnecting someone you love from life support."

"Every time I have a good day, a good thought, a good experience, it's like I get kicked in the gut right after. Like I have to pay the price. How long does that last?"

And here's what I know now. Here's what Megan put out and here's what floated right beside us after I shared my experience. Here are her words that I tried on and found they fit.

Backlash happens.

"I almost hated having a good day, because I knew what was coming next."

Megan shared about her early days of grief. About those first few years. And again, I wasn't promised it would go away or get better. I was presented with someone else's experience which taught me that I am not defective. That I am not "grieving wrong." I am not a fake or a liar or someone who tried joy for a bit and found it wanting.

"If grief were a physical thing, if it could be understood like that, you'd still be in intensive care," she explained at one point. "I mean, you're out of the woods. Everyone knows you're going to survive. But you're not exactly ready to get discharged and go home."

This fits. This feels right. And I imagine if that doesn't make sense to you, you haven't yet experienced sudden loss.

I think I'll be in rehabilitation for a few years, at least.  And while that might not be clear to the outside world, those in this sacred inner-circle of grief, this Tribe of After, these Warriors of Now that I meet with regularly in a virtual sacred space understand this completely.

And sometimes it's nice to be reminded that even when everything does not feel ok, I'm going about it just fine.

I'm going about this just fine.