I've sat down to write this blog for about two and a half months. I couldn't bring myself to do it because I didn't have the conclusion I thought I would. I thought I was going to have an epiphany about having joy while grieving. I still don't really have a conclusion, so if that's what you're looking for, I'm sorry but I don't have an answer. I don't know what having joy in the midst of grief could look like. To be perfectly honest with you, I don't think its possible. I don't think its possible to have joy (definition: "inner peace", "happiness or pleasure") in the middle of grieving unexpected loss. Maybe its sometimes an option when the loss has been anticipated, but even then, grief is pain. And pain is bitter, raw, heavy, and smothering.
In the continuation of being honest, I don't think people should have joy in the midst of grief. I think its a bullshit way of attempting to cope that isn't healthy or helpful. I think grief needs to be experienced fully so that healing has room to take place at some point, optimistically not significantly later. I'm not saying to push out any and all positivity or good. Practicing self-care and doing things that promote happiness and rest is very important. Please do that. But in order to process grief fully, you can't detach, you can't compress, you can't convince yourself that its somehow okay. You can't lie about the severity of the pain and anguish you feel, not to others and especially not to yourself. Running away, distracting, and dissociating may appear to make the process easier at first but I swear to you, it's a lie. Trust me, I've tried.
Near the end of December, I was listening to a musician and one of her songs came on. Despite the fact that I was familiar with her music, I somehow, I hadn't heard it before. I keyed in to the words sung, and it was as if all of the things I had felt in years past (especially the last one) had been formed into the most lovely lyrics and melody. I danced alone in my room at 2am and sobbed. Not just "ugly cry", but the kind that makes it nearly impossible to breathe and you end up vomiting. I played "Rejoice" at least eight times that night.
"I rejoice and complain... Lift my voice that I was made. And somebody's listening at night with the ghosts of my friends when I pray. Asking why did you let them leave and then make me stay?'
That line was stuck in my head for days. It still pops up every now and then, each time it resonates with the intimate cries of my heart. It really got me thinking... How do you rejoice in the midst of that type of grieving? Many who are religious have said they are able to rejoice in the knowledge of their loved one lost being in Heaven. I don't really know what I think about the after life these days, but if our Western concept of Heaven is false and inaccurate, where is the reason for rejoicing? If there isn't religion involved, how does assurance and that "inner peace" come into play?
Since that night, I have felt my brain begin to process recent losses in ways I hadn't yet been able to before. My brain feels clearer and the weight on my rib-cage has gotten lighter. I've realized I have hope again; hope for my future, for my mental health to improve, for the gaping wounds in my heart to heal, and for a day when there was more to celebrate than mourn.
The past few weeks have carried some mixed feelings. My birthday was around then, and birthdays have a way of making me analyze my life up until that point. It highlights my failures and fears, reminds me of my dreams and goals, and tends to bring up other weird thoughts and feelings. But this year, as I sat to do my annual birthday journaling, I felt so. much. peace. I felt content and carefree. I closed my eyes and excitement raced through my veins (no, I hadn't drank coffee). I got this unexplainable feeling that this year- my 24th year of existing- was going to be one of the best years of my life. That all the pain would be replaced by joy. That the depth of the hurt would be filled with joy and happiness and fun! Instantly, part of my brain cautioned my heart... As if it said, "Don't get too carried away now...You'll just get disappointed." Which isn't wrong- hope can lead to disappointment. But I'd rather hope (while still maintaining a decent level of realistic logic) and risk disappointment than live without hope.
Perhaps that's what people actually mean when they say joy is attainable in the middle of suffering... Maybe what they really mean is, "hope can exists while grieving". If so, then I'm open to that but even still, it doesn't happen immediately. And that's okay. It's okay to only feel the intensity of grief while grieving. People don't say that enough, so I'm saying it.
Lately, I've been making lists that I call "tiny joys". Each list is made up of simplicities, ones that bring a flood of warmth to my chest and a small grin to my face.
It encourages me to look for new tiny joys.
Its hope, inhaling and exhaling.
"Life is good and beautiful. Situations can be painful and totally suck.
But life is still good."- Michael Thigpen
yours truly
In the continuation of being honest, I don't think people should have joy in the midst of grief. I think its a bullshit way of attempting to cope that isn't healthy or helpful. I think grief needs to be experienced fully so that healing has room to take place at some point, optimistically not significantly later. I'm not saying to push out any and all positivity or good. Practicing self-care and doing things that promote happiness and rest is very important. Please do that. But in order to process grief fully, you can't detach, you can't compress, you can't convince yourself that its somehow okay. You can't lie about the severity of the pain and anguish you feel, not to others and especially not to yourself. Running away, distracting, and dissociating may appear to make the process easier at first but I swear to you, it's a lie. Trust me, I've tried.
Near the end of December, I was listening to a musician and one of her songs came on. Despite the fact that I was familiar with her music, I somehow, I hadn't heard it before. I keyed in to the words sung, and it was as if all of the things I had felt in years past (especially the last one) had been formed into the most lovely lyrics and melody. I danced alone in my room at 2am and sobbed. Not just "ugly cry", but the kind that makes it nearly impossible to breathe and you end up vomiting. I played "Rejoice" at least eight times that night.
"I rejoice and complain... Lift my voice that I was made. And somebody's listening at night with the ghosts of my friends when I pray. Asking why did you let them leave and then make me stay?'
That line was stuck in my head for days. It still pops up every now and then, each time it resonates with the intimate cries of my heart. It really got me thinking... How do you rejoice in the midst of that type of grieving? Many who are religious have said they are able to rejoice in the knowledge of their loved one lost being in Heaven. I don't really know what I think about the after life these days, but if our Western concept of Heaven is false and inaccurate, where is the reason for rejoicing? If there isn't religion involved, how does assurance and that "inner peace" come into play?
Since that night, I have felt my brain begin to process recent losses in ways I hadn't yet been able to before. My brain feels clearer and the weight on my rib-cage has gotten lighter. I've realized I have hope again; hope for my future, for my mental health to improve, for the gaping wounds in my heart to heal, and for a day when there was more to celebrate than mourn.
The past few weeks have carried some mixed feelings. My birthday was around then, and birthdays have a way of making me analyze my life up until that point. It highlights my failures and fears, reminds me of my dreams and goals, and tends to bring up other weird thoughts and feelings. But this year, as I sat to do my annual birthday journaling, I felt so. much. peace. I felt content and carefree. I closed my eyes and excitement raced through my veins (no, I hadn't drank coffee). I got this unexplainable feeling that this year- my 24th year of existing- was going to be one of the best years of my life. That all the pain would be replaced by joy. That the depth of the hurt would be filled with joy and happiness and fun! Instantly, part of my brain cautioned my heart... As if it said, "Don't get too carried away now...You'll just get disappointed." Which isn't wrong- hope can lead to disappointment. But I'd rather hope (while still maintaining a decent level of realistic logic) and risk disappointment than live without hope.
Perhaps that's what people actually mean when they say joy is attainable in the middle of suffering... Maybe what they really mean is, "hope can exists while grieving". If so, then I'm open to that but even still, it doesn't happen immediately. And that's okay. It's okay to only feel the intensity of grief while grieving. People don't say that enough, so I'm saying it.
Lately, I've been making lists that I call "tiny joys". Each list is made up of simplicities, ones that bring a flood of warmth to my chest and a small grin to my face.
- driving with the windows down
- laughing late at night with friends
- watching the stars
- sitting around a bonfire
- sunsets
- food adventures
- long hugs from those you love
- sunshine on my bare skin
- puns- good, bad, and dad ones
- sunflowers
- the smell of a summer rainstorm
It encourages me to look for new tiny joys.
Its hope, inhaling and exhaling.
"Life is good and beautiful. Situations can be painful and totally suck.
But life is still good."- Michael Thigpen
yours truly