Late August. As the Piedmont summer heat begins to relent somewhat and the days grow noticeably shorter, I feel a shift inside me that mirrors the shift of the earth on its axis, away from the sun. I feel the sudden passage of time, a visceral knowledge in stark contrast to the strange dream-like monotony of “pandemic time.”
I sense this change of season with a familiar pang of loss, as the fullness of summer gives way to the dwindling of light and warmth that marks autumn and winter. Having already encountered so much isolation and loss since March, here comes more. Just when we need something to stay the same, more change is in the air.
As a grief counselor, I know many of you feel this same inner shift at this time of year. It may show up as a fear of increased isolation, a vague dread of longer nights (often the hardest time of day for those in grief), deep yearning for those you love and cannot be with, anxiety about the looming holiday season where loss is highlighted, increased impatience with those who don’t understand your needs in a very changed world. You may feel on the verge of tears, more irritable than usual, more sensitive, less able to care about other peoples’ problems. You may feel frustrated that you can’t seem to get anything done despite having endless days with nowhere to go and nothing much (or way too much) to do.
And you may feel guilty or selfish or weak for feeling this way, thinking your particular suffering is small compared to so many others in this time of acute national and global suffering. You may be trying to “snap yourself out of it” by telling yourself to stop wallowing, to stop focusing on what is lost and be grateful for what you have, to stop holding a pity party, to get off your pity pot, to put on your big girl panties (or big boy pants) and deal with it.
How’s that working for you?
My guess is, it isn’t. Dismissal of painful emotions is a tempting shortcut that most often leads nowhere. Your suffering is your suffering. Your loss is your loss. And the only way through is — through! We cannot talk (or berate) ourselves out of it. As Earl Grollman says, “Grief is not a disorder, a disease or a sign of weakness. It is an emotional, physical and spiritual necessity, the price you pay for love. The only cure for grief is to grieve.”
However loss is showing up for you today, acknowledging your pain is both healthy and necessary. And HARD. And often, frightening. You need comfort and reassurance, just like a small child who is hurt and doesn’t understand what is happening.
Does it help a tearful child stop crying if you demand, “Stop crying!”? Does it help a frightened child calm down if you command, “Calm down!”? In moments of overwhelm, we don’t need to be told to stop feeling what we are feeling. We need to be told: “This is hard. It hurts. It’s OK to cry. I’m here for you. It’s OK if you can’t figure it out right this minute. You will get through this.”
Can you do that for yourself? Many of us find it much easier to offer such compassion and comfort to others than to ourselves. Perhaps it feels indulgent, selfish, too much like self-pity.
Heather Stang reminds us that compassion for our personal suffering is not self-pity that isolates us from the “real” suffering of others; in fact, self-compassion helps us to be in community with them: “One of the key differences between self-pity and self-compassion is the acknowledgement that suffering is a common human experience. Self-compassion is uniting rather than divisive. We know we are on this journey together.”
Earlier this month I wrote about acceptance as the key to moving forward on this journey, this pandemic marathon through a very changed world of loss and uncertainty. We begin this work by accepting not only our changed world, but our changed selves. Our more vulnerable, less productive, profoundly tired, sometimes-floundering selves.
For Heather Stang, acceptance means that “when the unthinkable happens, we honor our self and our experience with dignity and kindness. Rather than turn our back on our own suffering, we treat ourselves as we would a beloved friend.”
Try it. The next time you notice yourself struggling and are tempted to dismiss your suffering, imagine a beloved friend in this same distress and how you might respond. Talk to yourself as you would talk to your friend: “This is hard. It hurts. It’s OK to cry. I’m here for you. It’s OK if you can’t figure it out right this minute. You will get through this.”
Notice how it feels to respond to your distress with loving compassion instead of criticism; notice how the distress eventually subsides and strength returns. You may not be able to hug your beloved friend in the midst of COVID-19, but it is perfectly safe — and you are hereby invited — to wrap your arms around your own struggling self, either literally or in your mind’s eye or in your heart. In this time of social isolation when safety precautions limit our ability to “be there” for one another, be there for yourself. Whenever YOU need YOU.
Earl Grollman has written many books on coping with grief:
https://www.goodreads.com/author/list/28500.Earl_A_Grollman
Heather Stang writes about grief and mindfulness:
https://heatherstang.com/about/
Photo Credit: Roman Kraft on Unsplash
