Grief is more of a state than a stage. And it’s also a magical mystery tour. Like a seasoned samurai, grief slices you summarily in half with its cold, hard, gleaming blade — then envelops you in a viscous layer of gray goo that permeates every cell membrane, breath, and thought. It seeps into all the nooks and crannies of your soul and the chambers of your heart. It adheres generally and specifically to all the curves and hard edges of the crusty cocoon that confines and isolates you. You think, “Lord, if I could only sleep, I could escape this nightmare for a few hours.” But grief lurks behind your eyes and sneaks into your silent synapses — reminding you that it never leaves. Your own Hotel California. You’re awkward with everyone everywhere as you wonder who you are now. Whom can you trust with your raw wounds? Disassociation, guilt, anger. They are all in the mix. In truth, you are the ghost. There is no normal to go back to — as you fuse with the unfathomable present. Eventually, the edges of the initial puncture soften. Making room for the sweet with the bitter. The shine with the shadow. The light with the dark. Together. All the time. My theory is that grief trains your brain like an A.I. algorithm to see the world in dualities as a survival mechanism. That must be where the divinity lies. Allowing dichotomies of hope and agony. Joy and heartache. Surprise and sorrow. Quintessentially human yet disturbingly foreign, as I touched on in my earlier essay, Living with Loss: The Myth of Moving On. This metamournphosis (my made-up word), keeps us moving through grief with all our baggage in tow. It's just such an unpredictable and erratic trip. And I did not pack appropriately. Always three steps forward and two steps back. One day at a time. This too shall pass. Let go and let God. I wonder if anyone has ever developed a 12-step program for grief. Seems like a viable candidate. Like an addiction for some and an altered brain state for most. Isn’t one of the steps in Co-Dependents Anonymous about surrendering power over people? “We are Powerless Over Others”Yes, that one resonates profoundly for me. I work on it daily in grief and beyond. All the “what-ifs,” “whys,” and “should-haves” around my son Elliot’s tragic, seemingly accidental death still haunt me almost six years later. I failed as a mother; I should have been able to save him. Why didn’t I insist he come over on that horrible Sunday? Why didn’t I do more? Is there more to the story I should have known? Was he manic that day? Why didn’t I ask about his motorcycle riding when I picked him up at the airport the Monday before? Was it an accident? Were the cops involved? Why won’t the witnesses talk? The list goes on . . . I suspect these questions continue to burrow so deeply into my brain because they are intertwined with my lifelong over-functioning and co-dependent tendencies. After hours of therapy grappling with trauma and my life’s hit parade of dysfunctional and abusive relationships — personal and professional, I am now aware this unconscious behavior creates an illusion (or delusion) of control. Dr. Phil might ask, “And how’s that working for you?” But I had a real breakthrough this week when I attended a webinar class given by grief therapist/author David Kessler and therapist/author Nancy Levin, Grief and Shadow Work. Based on the seminal work of Swiss psychiatrist Carl Jung, the Zoom session focused on finding the light in your shadow — learning to fearlessly examine the things you most want to avoid in yourself, the things you have kept shrouded in darkness, both the negative and the positive. Levin contends that the shadow is where our brilliance and purpose hide. Fascinating and revelatory, especially in the context of grief recovery. The Narcissism of the Empath“This might be hard to hear,” Levin cautioned. “We are talking about the narcissism of the empath.” Though the audio on the call was muted, the collective gasp was almost audible. She said, “The treasures of self-awareness and authenticity are concealed in our shadows.” Granted, as empaths, we possess generous, compassionate, caring hearts, but as Levin posits, the narcissistic component emerges in the belief that we have the power to save, fix, rescue, heal, or change anyone — along with the notion that it’s our job to do so. Do we have that kind of power over any person or thing? Uh, no! We are powerless over other people. Ah, there’s that step thing again. “The narcissism of the empath” does sound like a paradox, but the idea of wounds makes sense to me. Gratefully, I felt a virtual burden lift when I heard her describe this dynamic. I suddenly understood the source of many of my intense feelings of guilt and anger around Elliot’s death, and I see now how holding on to this magical thinking is both unhealthy and unproductive. This illusion of control helps us feel better about ourselves for about a hot minute, but it’s a futile effort because it’s other-referenced. “The only person you can now or ever change is yourself,” says Melody Beattie, an expert author on co-dependency. “The only person that it is your business to control is yourself.” This was a textbook example of that adage about the teacher appearing when the student is ready. Since I am in the think of healing from a series of toxic relationship betrayals — personal and professional, I guess I was primed to explore this theory in the context of grief. The timing could not have been better. Between the pain and the enlightenment, it’s remarkable how impactful these gut-wrenching epiphanies can be. We cannot control or change others, and that includes those we cherish most. Difficult truth. Levin’s words sink in: “The more we see our shadows, the more we find the light and the real grief.” The Road to NowhereStill, no matter what you do, the grief road continues as long as you live. There is no destination. Only your view changes. All the exit ramps lead back to the main highway, which must be located somewhere in The Twilight Zone. The road is long, mysterious, bittersweet, surprising, and frequently bumpy. There are potholes, speed traps, breakdowns, and congestion. However, we make frequent stops for gas and sightseeing, collecting experiences and surprises like those colorful refrigerator magnets they sell at National Parks and Buc-ee’s. Eventually, they cover your refrigerator with a rich, slightly tacky, mosaic of memories that defy organization — constantly metamournphosizing, as Elliot might tease with a smirk. Embracing the AlgorithmSo, in a way, grief is the rarest and most robust A.I. model of all — fed by life’s deep data lake and trained by millions of tears, photos, micro-moments, stories, sights, sounds, experiences, prayers, scents, smiles, touches, and gentle echoes that generate our evolving reality after loss. As we travel, we also gather more data from poets, spiritual teachers, caring friends, artists, musicians, nature, jet trails, neighbors, strangers, books, films, NPR, television, special places, our fragile hearts, and others navigating loss. Then, all the ah-has, epiphanies, signs, and coincidences conflate with the wisdom of the universe in perfect moments of clarity and connection that sustain us — glimmers of grace that help us find light in the shadow of our forever despair. We are all connected, all at once — to yesterday, always, and now. This is our comfort. This is our peace — one moment at a time. You're currently a free subscriber to Grief Matters. 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Sunday, 30 June 2024
The A.I. of Grief
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