What now?
Six months into my grief journey, I've hit a different stretch of road. Here's what I can see in the rearview mirror.
Since Dad passed, I’ve had this feeling I was grieving ‘too well’. I had my moments, but by and large - every day - I was getting up, getting dressed and doing all the things. Working. Parenting. Exercising. Socialising. Dreaming. All without Dad.
There was an undercurrent of anxiety that grief was going to rise up and hit me out of nowhere, but I’m used to an undercurrent. I’ve lived with one my whole life, so that swell was nothing new.
Dad always used to give me ‘half birthdays’ - he felt that celebrating only once a year was too long for a little kid to wait. So I knew that the six month mark of Dad’s death would hold more meaning for me than perhaps the expected bubbling up when you reach the end of your ‘year of firsts’ - your first birthday without them, their first birthday without them, the first Christmas, Mother’s/Father’s Day and so on.
I invited the family over for dinner, setting up Dad’s ashes and hat with a little altar at the head of the table. I roasted a chook and sat and ate and shared and chatted and I didn’t cry, even though I’d have welcomed it. But in the following days and now weeks, it’s as though the dark cloud that has been following me around has gotten stormier. Am I depressed? Am I just exhausted and recovering from two-and-a-half- years of caring? Perhaps this is what middle age feels like? Or is it all just grief?
I remember interviewing positive psychologist Dr Tim Sharp, who you might know as Dr Happy, a few years ago on a podcast I used to host. Something he said about grief stuck with me.
“The question that often comes up is ‘how long is normal’, so when does normal grief become abnormal and this is a really difficult one. According to the psychological texts it’s six months, and I don’t necessarily like this or agree with this but according to the diagnostic system that mosts psychologists use, you’re allowed to grieve for six months and then after that it becomes ‘abnormal’. But to me that’s ridiculous, it’s absurd, it’s an arbitrary timeline. Who’s to say that five months is normal and seven months is not?”
Dr Tim Sharp
I’ve been lucky enough to have limited experience with grief in my 40 years on the planet. Like most people my age I’ve lost grandparents and I lost my beautiful mother-in-law in 2019 which I wrote about here, but until six months ago I still had both parents, all my siblings, my partner and (thank god) my children as well as the vast majority of my nearest and dearest friends. But I don’t think it matters how much experience you have, how uncomplicated it is, or even how much they meant to you. I think grief is an entirely unique experience that doesn’t play by any rules.
Sure, we know there are stages; denial, anger, bargaining, depression, acceptance and the more recently added meaning. And we know - or at least I thought I knew - that I wouldn’t move through them sequentially or in any sort of linear fashion. I figured my heart would grow around the grief, and my social media feed served up pop psychology that seemed to confirm it.
This doesn’t just apply when we lose someone we love. I believe we’re all grieving something - our youth. Our children’s youth. Our looks. Our dreams. Our fertility. What we thought life would/could/should’ve looked like at *insert age here*.
So it’s very possible you’re grieving something or someone, and while I don’t have the answers I hope some of these observations can act as a wall to bounce your own enquiries off, and bring you comfort in some small way.
Here’s what I’ve learned six months in:
Grief is personal and unique. You cannot compare, contrast or compress your grief to fit into anyone else’s box. It is yours, even when it is shared.
Grief isn’t loud, it’s quiet. Like a thirst you can never quench or that feeling when you know you’ve forgotten something, but can’t work out what it is.
Grief doesn’t work to project plans, timelines, or finish lines. As Dr Sharp shared, timelines with grief are arbitrary. My Mum lost her partner more than three years ago (I wrote about that in all its complicated glory for Mamamia) and she’s only starting to ‘come good’ now - whatever that means. And yet, she can still tell you exactly how long it’s been since she lost him, down to the hour.
Grief isn’t contagious, but it sure as hell feels like it. Rather than being abandoned by anyone, instead I’ve isolated myself so that my grief doesn’t rub off on others and - honestly - so I don’t have to perform life, which is what I feel like I’m doing most of the time.
Grief can make you feel overwhelmed and empty at the same time. It can feel like depression and anxiety and nausea and confusion and mania and deep sorrow and it’s likely, that all of it is just grief.
One gift you can give someone who does lose someone they love is this;
Put a diary notification in your phone for the three, six and nine month point as well as the one year anniversary (and make that one repeat forever). You don’t need to mark the timeframe in your communication to them, just shoot them a text on those days saying something like ‘I know you’ll be missing X and I want you to know I’m thinking of you and sending my love today.’
You don’t have to offer anything, or do anything. The acknowledgement is the gift - for long after everyone else’s life has gone back to normal, I can’t tell you how much that means to the person in grief.
Extra things
You can listen to that old podcast episode between Dr Tim Sharp and I here if you like. It was a good chat on everything mental health, and worth a listen.
I also came across an incredible resource while doing some research the other day:
Australia’s Griefline offers free and confidential counselling and support to people experiencing grief and loss across Australia, inclusive of remote, regional, rural and metropolitan regions - on 1300 845 745 or chat to them here 24/7.
And in case you missed it, my chat with the incredible Dr Michela Sorensen is here and wherever you get your podcasts - just search Next Of Kin.
Next Of Kin is written by health journalist Casey Beros to create a space where we can all become better Next Of Kin for each other and the world at large. If you know someone who would benefit from my musings, do me (and them) a huge favour and send this on. You can follow me on Instagram here and find out more about my work here.