Feeling Sorry, and Being Strong

In the months following Ryan's death, I read a few books on grief, only one of which I found helpful.  I didn't find a book that was able to speak to me - a young, pregnant widow whose husband died suddenly, but not in a disaster or in the line of any kind of duty.  Recently though, I decided to try again, and simply focus on books relating to young widows.  In doing so, I came across a memoir, the title of which I don't remember, by a woman in a situation very much like my own.  I rely on the reviews of these books, as I find that most reviewers are grievers themselves, and give honest opinions about what books have helped them and why.  In the case of this book, the top reviewer said that what he most admired about the writer was that she "never once felt sorry for herself".  This line, probably unfairly, made my blood boil.

First off, it's very likely simply not true.  To think that a woman in her twenties or thirties lost her husband months before the birth of their first child, and then never felt sorry for herself, is pretty much inconceivable.  I don't know this woman, and I'm making assumptions.  Perhaps she truly is that remarkable of a person, but I seriously doubt it.  I'm awfully cynical, and I bet that a more "positive" telling of the story probably sold more books.  The self-pity was probably edited out.

What bothered me more though, is that this reviewer's single favorite thing about the story was that the writer didn't pity herself.  This, to me, represents a fundamental point about how this society views grief.  We respect a person who is able to get knocked down and get back up like nothing happened.  Preferably quickly, and with a smile.

For the record, I feel sorry for myself.  Regularly.  Not every minute, not every day, but regularly.  And what's more, I'm not ashamed of it.  I think it's normal, and that most people who have been through a deep loss would go through some period of self-pity.  I hate that I lost my husband, I hate that my daughter will never know him, and I hate that our future together was taken away.  I hate that I have no answers for why it happened.  Why should I not be entitled to feel sorry for myself?  I feel sorry for the other people in Ryan's life who have lost a son, a brother, a friend.  I believe I'm entitled to feel a little sorry for myself too.  Maybe not forever, and not so much that it takes over my entire existence, but probably for a long time.  I'm not done grieving yet, and I don't know when I will be.

Grief takes time.  It take a lot more time than this society is prepared to give it.  We applaud people who are able to heal quickly.  We call them "strong".  It's not a perfect example, but I think of the Boston Marathon bombing.  The anniversary was last month, and I can't tell you the number of stories that I saw about someone who lost a limb or was otherwise injured or traumatized, and is up walking or running again a year later.  News anchors want to run these stories because they're inspirational - they show that after tragedy, these strong people were able to work hard, overcome their losses, and move on with a promising new life, like a happy ending of a movie.  The loss of a limb is, of course, different than the loss of a loved one, but I doubt that anyone who lost a limb or was otherwise the victim of terrorism would have completely overcome their grief and trauma after a year.  I'm sure they still struggle.  I'm sure they still have hard days and times when they wonder why this had to happen to them, and times when they wish it hadn't.  This is not to say that their stories shouldn't be inspiring to others, it's not to say that they're not remarkable people.  They are.  They are remarkable, and to be admired for their resilience.  But, perhaps we owe them, and other victims of tragedy, a bit more time before expecting them to be healed.  There is something symbolic about the one year anniversary of an event - it seems to be a statute of limitations, after which a person should be ready to get up and move on.  It's nowhere near that simple.  Often, the second year of grief can be just as bad or even worse.  At least a part of this comes from the fact that people feel you should be over the hard part.   It's hard to continue to grieve when people think you should be done.  

In the year after Ryan died, a lot of people called me "strong".  I got "brave" too.  Most of the time, I feel that I am neither.  In fact, the antonyms of those words, "weak" and "cowardly" seem often to apply more aptly.  I want to lay down and quit often.  And, as mentioned before, I feel sorry for myself a lot. I'm tired, and often bitter and angry.  I didn't just get back up and brush myself off - I wallowed.  Sometimes, I still do, and I think I will for a long time.  I'm not "better".

But, I think maybe that's what actually makes a person strong.  It's not the ability to get over it and move on quickly, it's not the ability to resist self-pity.  Those things, if you truly have them, are admirable, but I think strength comes from somewhere else too.  Strength can be the ability to get up and go on with your life, even knowing that it's not better, knowing that you'll never get back what you lost, knowing that you have many more hard times ahead of you, pining for your old life, living with crushing hurt all of the time, but going on anyway.  No matter how tired I am, no matter how many times I've completely freaked out, and no matter how much I still feel like there's no reward at the end of all of this work, I do get up every morning.  I get up carrying my grief all of the time, and do the best I can, even though I often don't feel much like it.  If I'm strong, that's why.  The same, I'm sure, can be said of countless other people out there who are suffering through deep grief.  Their strength lies not in their ability to heal quickly, but in their ability to live with their loss, despite how difficult it is to do so.