The Disconnect

 

From Science Friday site on grief and the brain (shutterstock)

I woke up crying this morning and have been teary off and on.

This still happens with some regularity, even though I've been feeling much better over the past month or so.

Maybe my sadness rose again because I did a thing I haven't done since Will died.  I walked downtown yesterday from my house, by myself. I walked down a steep dirt slope we called "The Alps." Since I last walked it, the journey down has been "improved"  with a very stupid winding path that encouraged slipping. After falling down and being annoyed, I just stepped over the irritating remediation hay-rolls to get to the bottom of the hill.

But it wasn't the recent changes that most effected me.  It was my memory of all of our walks downtown.  My memory of him heading downtown a few times a week on the Alps. My memory of becoming terrified in the later years about him getting lost (and he did once, on his way home). All the memories. Memories of him walking by himself. Memories of our settled, routine life. Then memories of the dementia years. But mostly my memory of him in his red coat, walking downtown on this path. For the first year and a half I could barely look at it as I drove by.

This is probably one of those "weird grief things" that people who haven't lost someone close won't understand. How could a public space be so associated with my love that I couldn't bare to be on it before?

Getting downtown felt like such an accomplishment that when a young man at the farmer's market, where I was tasting and buying mead, asked me how I was, I told him, "I'm so proud. I made the walk downtown for the first time since my husband died."

I can't say this to some of the people who know me anymore because sometimes they shame me with their expectations that I should be fine now.  So I tell them I am. Because at this point I would rather lie than be shamed. And in some ways, it is true. I mean, I now know Will's spirit is with me and that alleviates some of the stress. Nevertheless, when I do feel shamed for not being more functional, I start having thoughts of cutting. Fortunately, I've learned why I'm so reactive to shaming (shame being #1 with a bullet on my narcissism chart) so maybe I can just be more aware now and stop the self-harm ideations before they start. At least that's the plan!  

I understand that people have good intentions, like those church folks who told my friend Terri (her loss being just a few months old) that she should already be "moving on." The nice thing is, I always get positive understanding from strangers (especially if I'm buying something from them 😉). 

As part of my "healing journey", I am now making an effort to talk with strangers a few times a week. Largely, this is through my current commitment to "pet all the dogs" and of course I need to ask the dog parents/pack leaders if I can pet. I don't drop the death bomb on them but I do sometimes mention my "healing journey" if they indicate they want to chat for a moment. 

Strangers who don't want to kill or rape you are terrific.

The core issue, of course, is the disconnect between people who have experienced a traumatic loss and people who haven't. It's very similar, in my perception, to the disconnect between people who have experienced violence and the threat of violent death and people who haven't. The physical experience in the brain and body as well as the mind (note: yes, brain and mind are different) changes a person's vision of the world. This is one reason I've always felt a connection with Vietnam combat veterans, because I was a casualty in the war against women, a feminist soldier who thought for over two hours that I was going to be killed by knife across my throat at the end of the kidnap and assault. A soldier who wound up being spit on by my older sister when I was delivered back to my aunt's house.

Before Will transitioned, I had been through more manageable losses - my suicided sister, my grieving mother, my narcissistic dad, my best friend in graduate school. I had even been a hospice volunteer. But I still didn't understand deep grief until the loss of my friend and foundation of 50 years. My recent  understanding has led me to feel so guilty about not being there for the grieving in the past, especially a former colleague who suicided a few years after her husband died.

Fortunately, along with the guilt, has finally come a greater compassion for people who don't understand, like those friendly folks who accidentally shame me, like one of my pastors who six months ago said something about re-bonding with someone because I am a "firecracker" who clearly needs another connection. Nope.

 Here's the deal about why I'm not pair bonding again.

At this point, I've been celibate for 10 years and there's a great peace in celibacy. But in the past I enjoyed sex with a lot of people. Way more than you! (Whoever is reading this, I can pretty much guarantee that statement unless you are a gay man or basketball star who lived in the world before AIDS.) I have been "in love" with people outside my pair-bond six times.

Will and June Jhumpa, 2006

What all that past purple and scarlet experience taught me is that Will was "The One."

I truly did not believe that was the case. Frankly, I didn't think I'd be grieving at all. I'd already had almost 7 years of grieving his daily losses. During all that time, I imagined that after Will's death I would find some nice woman to bond with, to fulfill that side of my bisexuality. Or maybe even become part of a throuple. (And oi, how hip would that have been!)

But at this point in time, I have no desire to "be with" anybody. Sure, I miss sex.  A lot. But I don't miss the negotiation, the figuring out what works, the having to be attractive, etc.  I think what I told my pastor was that it "takes too much work to be fuckable."  He laughed so hard and said he understood my point of view.

Add to this my understanding that all my passion was deeply connected to my broken brain and my narcissism and I just don't want to go there anymore. It's too much work for an old broad like myself.