Grief Journey

“It’s like they can’t even see you!” I stared incredulously as people passed us by.

Grief raised his eyebrows “You think?” He smiled sarcastically.

“You’d noticed?” I asked, surprised. “Of course you’ve noticed.” I corrected myself.

“Yeah, I’m kind of used to it.” Grief admitted.

“But why…why don’t they acknowledge you? They must notice you?” I asked.

“Ah, now there’s a number of thoughts about that, how long have you got?” Grief replied, grinning.

“The sun doesn’t set for another hour or so, I’m happy to stay here and chat.” I suggested as we sat on the edge of the stone bridge with our legs dangling over the water.

“It’s beautiful isn’t it…” Grief gestured towards the river, which was incredibly clear, the willow trees reflected easily in the still water and it was possible to see the lily pad roots as they weaved their way to the river bed.

“Yeah, I need moments like this.” I took a breath and slowly breathed out.

“Even with me here?” he nudged my shoulder with his affectionately.

“Even with you!” I retorted playfully.

We sat for a moment and took in the view, in the warmth of the evening sun, listening to the wind rustle the trees, and even catching a fleeting glimpse of a kingfisher.

“So why don’t they acknowledge you?” I asked after a while.

“There’s a reality to humanity, you’re way more connected to each other than you realise. When one of you is sad, others feel it…except you don’t like feeling other people’s pain so instead you deploy a variety of responses so that you don’t have to feel.” Grief began to explain.

“So that we don’t have to engage with you?” I clarified.

“Yep!” Grief looked resigned to his reality. “Being close to someone else’s experience of me causes you to be aware of me. You feel uncomfortable and you don’t like it so you dismiss me as quickly as you can.

“How exactly do we do that?” I was intrigued.

“Well, ok, so…” Grief began, sounding as if he wasn’t sure where to start. “There’s blame, you’re very good at blaming others for my presence, apportioning fault…that way you disassociate yourself from me a little… ‘if they hadn’t done that then this wouldn’t have happened…that kind of thing.”

“Hmmmm”, I tried to understand his explanation.

“You also use reason, you’re all very good at trying to apply logic to situations where, well, it just isn’t logical.” Grief laughed amused by what he’d obviously experienced. “You try to make sense of why I’m here, so for example, you convince yourself, ‘they died because they didn’t exercise’, or ‘drank too much’ or ‘walked that way home’ or whatever story you tell yourself to separate yourself from someone else's experience of me. “

“Oh…a bit like the miscarriage…when I told myself that it was a combination of the hair dye I’d used and the allergy tablets I took for that infected bite.” I sighed, knowing I had been guilty of trying to dismiss Grief.

“Yes, exactly that, as though by applying that logic you could distance yourself from me and convince yourself that it couldn’t possibly happen again. Yet all that did was cause you to feel shame and well, it still hurt.” Grief explained.

“I was devastated.” I sighed, “it’s complicated isn’t it.”

“Yep,” Grief agreed.

We sat silently again.

“I guess all our responses give us a sense of safety, a belief that certain things can’t happen to us, that it only happens to others.” I wondered aloud.

“Yes!” Grief agreed again, almost sounding surprised that I was so engaged with him and all that he was saying.

“So what’s the answer, is there one?” I asked.

“I don’t know.” Grief replied. “Maybe we need more stories about me, about how it’s OK to include me, about how walking with me isn’t, well, as bad as everyone thinks it is…”

“Like how it’s OK to sit on a bridge, watch the sun set and talk with you.” I smiled.

“Yeah, I reckon.” Grief smiled too and we fell quiet for a moment watching the colours of the sunset bounce off the water in front of us.

“There’s a culture of positivity that suggests we should all feel happy and good all the time,” Grief stared at his feet as they swung below him. “It’s a culture that all to easily dismisses what are labelled as the more negative emotions.”

“Yes, I know, our culture only really likes stories that end with a ‘happy ever after’.” I agreed.

Grief continued. “I wonder if acknowledging the full breadth of feeling that I hold and not applying such a dualistic, good or bad, approach is actually a healthier more positive response?”

Grief looked across at me. I studied his eyes, there was an honesty about him that somehow made me feel safe. “I think there’s something to that, there’s something about accepting the story as it is even if it’s different to what I thought it would be. I’ve found it helps to allow you to be present in my story rather than pretend you’re not there, or try to avoid you or reason you away. You’re easier to have around when I accept what is and don’t expel energy trying to get you to leave, if that makes sense.” I wasn’t sure it did but Grief nodded.

“I’ve never wanted to make things worse for you.” He admitted.

“I know.” I acknowledged.

“I’ve often made things worse for myself by my reaction to you.” I admitted.

“You’re only human.” Grief grinned.

“A work in progress.” I winked.

The sun had almost disappeared behind the trees and the evening was cooler than when we’d set off.

“Time to go home.” Grief declared as he stood, holding his hand out to pull me up. “Do you want me to walk with you?”

I smiled, “Yes, I’d like that.”

By Deb Bridges (Director, Writer and Life Coach for Prodigal Collective)