Burying the lede

I'm becoming a connoisseur of grief literature. This is not so much because I'm fascinated by the subject so much as it is desperation (more on that in a minute). Last night, I purchased The Grief Recovery Handbook, by John W. James and Russell Friedman, because someone in the widows/widowers subreddit recommended it. I've looked through it, and it appears to be a series of writing exercises intended to be done with a partner (ideally, someone else who's also struggling with grief) and designed to "complete" unfinished relationships with people we've lost.

Finding a partner to do this with would be my first challenge, because it would require a level of intimacy that I'm not generally good at with many people.

But that's not why I brought up the book. I brought up the book because the fifth chapter is entitled "Academy Award Recovery." Its focus is on how we're taught that grief should be managed by distracting ourselves or thinking about what the dead person would want for us, or by being strong, or by medicating it. (Fun fact: most everyone I speak to recommends medication; almost none of the grief literature I've read agrees with that recommendation. According to what I've read, treating grief as though it were clinical depression does not mitigate the grief; rather, it can extend it and potentially complicate it.)

It's all bullshit, and it's why people new to grief feel as though we're losing our minds: grief isn't a problem to be fixed, but the non-grieving treat it as though it is. And so, in order to minimize the discomfort that our grief causes the non-grieving (and let's not even talk about how ridiculous THAT is, because if there's ever a time when we shouldn't have to worry about making other people uncomfortable, it's now), we become Academy Award grievers: we put on a happy face; we say that we're fine; we may try to throw ourselves into self-improvement or helping others new to grief. All those actions help everyone else believe that we're doing better, that we're functional again, and then the grief is "fixed." And it's all a lie; there is no fixing grief, and hiding or minimizing our feelings doesn't help us make progress in the grieving process.

I'm not interested in Academy Award grieving. I'm not writing here to put a positive spin or a happy face on grief or its recovery/resolution/management/survival/[insert term of your choice here]. I'm writing because I want and need to make a record of this time in my life - for myself and for anyone else who may find herself or himself in the position I'm in. I'm writing because I'm stuck alone in my house 24/7 and will go absolutely batshit crazy if I don't communicate, even if it's communicating to the void.

Remember how that first paragraph included a mention of desperation? I called the Suicide Prevention Hotline today.

Not because I was literally suicidal (at least, not when I MADE the call), but because I was desperate for some concrete suggestions of what I can DO, because "just take it one day at a time" isn't cutting it. I didn't sleep again last night. I didn't eat anything yesterday or so far today. I've been crying all day. I've done 48 days of feeling my feelings and journaling and therapy and grief counseling and talking to friends and talking to family and I'm getting worse. I'm afraid that, if I don't find a way to pivot somehow, inertia is going to lead to me being stuck here permanently (and that's the best-case scenario, actually).

In the interests of full disclosure, it is true that I'm not overtly suicidal, but that's not the whole story. The whole story is that I'm not suicidal solely because I know there's no way to kill myself that's guaranteed to be both fool-proof and painless. If I had such an option, I probably would have taken it by now. (Hey, I told you: no Academy Award grieving here;  you're getting the real story.)

"But... Kathleen," I hear you cry, "if there's no fool-proof and painless method, and you won't do anything to yourself unless it's fool-proof and painless, then why did you call the Suicide Prevention Hotline today?" I'm so glad you asked. What scared me today is, what happens if I keep getting worse and reach the point where "fool-proof and painless" become nice-to-haves rather than have-to-haves? Again, let's remember that I'm alone in my house with my thoughts 24/7, feeling more hopeless with every passing day. If I were to suddenly decide that either "fool-proof" or "painless" is no longer an absolute requirement, there is literally nothing to stop me from doing exactly what I've promised everyone I won't do.

"But... Kathleen," I hear you cry, "what's with the 'not literally suicidal when you MADE the call' thing?" I'm so glad you asked. I gave her the condensed version of the story (new husband died unexpectedly 48 days ago, in grief counseling and therapy, getting worse, not sleeping or eating, yadda, yadda, yadda), and she went through the usual list: "take it one day at a time;" "there's no timeline for grief;" "you won't always feel this way."

And not gonna lie: I got snippy. I said, "That's what EVERYONE says, but HOW? What can I DO? Because what I'm doing is clearly not working." And she asked what it is that I wanted to get from the call. So I said, "I want some suggestions for concrete actions I can take to shift my trajectory, which is currently going in the wrong direction."

Her response? "I can't tell you that, because everyone grieves differently." People, I am not making this shit up.

REALLY? Someone calls you in so much pain that they're desperate for something - ANYTHING to hang onto to give them just a TINY bit of hope, and THAT'S it? You've got NOTHING?!?

At that moment, I realized I was well and truly screwed: even the suicide hotline couldn't help me. And at that moment, and for a brief while afterward, I was truly suicidal. So I got onto Facebook, and went into my small girls' secret group, and asked for someone to do a zoom call with me. And two of my fabulous friends got online with me and listened (and watched) me cry for a good half-hour. Do I feel better? Yes and no, but what's important is that they got me through the crisis, and I love them for dropping everything to be there for me when I needed it.

And then, I emailed Grace the Grief Counselor to ask if that book I'd purchased was any good. She suggested I instead go through Megan Devine's "Writing Your Grief" course, which is a 30-day, guided grief "workshop" with a social support system included. Not gonna lie: I'm troubled by the commoditization of grief support - I mean, I have the resources to afford it, but what about people who don't? What are THEY supposed to do? That seems wrong somehow.

But if Grace thinks it will be beneficial, I suppose there's no harm in trying, right? It doesn't start until April 20 (two months to the day after Doug died), so I'll be flailing about on my own until then. But I have a session with Brooke tomorrow, and I'll ask her for some suggestions to get me moving on the right path until then.

Have I hit rock bottom? Only time will tell, but I can't imagine it gets any lower than I was this afternoon.