more
grief
By The Small Bow Anonymous Family Orchestra
*****
Some more ways to get by.
I had to put my dog, Henry, to sleep in December. Some might say “it’s just a dog,” but Henry was my best friend, my soul mate. He came into my life shortly before I got sober, and I am convinced he was sent by some higher power to help me get through it. He was abused and scared of pretty much everyone except me, for whatever reason, and we developed mutual obsessions with each other. On days when sobriety felt impossibly hard, I would take him to the park, for a long walk, for a ride to get ice cream (that was his favorite), or simply sob into his fur. I felt safe and loved in his presence, which was exactly what I needed. Slowly, day by day, we got through it together. I began to feel stronger in my sobriety, and he began to trust humans again.
I knew Henry wouldn’t be with me forever, and I was absolutely terrified for that day to come. I thought that everything I’d worked so hard for would come crumbling down. How was I supposed to keep going without him? He helped me get through the absolute worst time of my life. As weird as it might sound, I believe he was sent to me exactly for that purpose, and he left when he knew that he fulfilled his mission.
So on the day that he died, when I held him in my lap and watched him take his final breath, I felt like a part of me died with him. While I don’t yet understand how I am supposed to handle the immense weight of this terrifying sober grief, I am endlessly grateful for the wonderful years we spent together, and that I haven’t seriously thought about relapsing at all. That’s not what Henry would have wanted. So I’ve been crying, watching videos of him a million times, and trying to remember the beautiful gifts we gave to each other. Gratitude seems to be the one thing that can cut through the messiness of it all and help it not feel so hard. And of course, LOTS of ice cream.
*****
The first thing I did was get a cat. I live alone — no spouse, kids, or siblings anywhere - and figured a cat might ground me, and if I was lucky, love me. It's helped tremendously just having him lie next to me at night, and giving me a distraction during the day.
I already had a therapist, so kept my semi-regular Zoom appointments with her, and often just cried or asked her practical questions about taking care of the cat, like I would have asked my mom. She hasn't lessened the grief, but a dedicated hour to constructively let it out is still highly fantastic.
Beyond that, I just let myself feel my grief. I just celebrated six years sober, and just like when I stopped drinking, I tell myself that it's ok to feel my feelings, that no one deserves to feel happy or entertained all the time, and that by actually allowing my feelings, I will heal faster. For years I stunted my emotional growth with alcohol; drinking now would just prolong the pain.
I don't have any other grief secrets, other than that I think I've had some version of brain fog the last six months as a result of her death. I've made mistakes at work and I'm taking naps on the weekend and am slower than usual to register things. My therapist says all that is normal, and it will recede eventually. Fortunately, my work has been understanding and my social life is so slow that naps don't hinder it. I love the Small Bow and hope you keep writing if it's helpful (work and purpose are very helpful for me) but if you can't do it, give yourself a break. I took three weeks off when my mom passed, and only went back to work when I did because I needed to get out of my own head. I basically sat in front of the computer comatose for the first few weeks and then started making mistakes when I applied myself. Again, my work was understanding, I'm sure your community will be too.
*****
The last 2 years have been a master class in loss and grief. My dad died 4/21, his sister, who I adored, died 9/21, and her husband died 12/21. All my elders wiped out in one year. In the middle of all that, my stepson committed suicide and my husband fell ill with a serious cancer that took him 11/22. Talk about life on life's terms.
How have I made it? The less great coping has involved copious amounts of delicious baked goods and sweet treats, especially this past December when it all caught up with me. Hello, Christmas cookies and English toffee! A great reminder that sugar is infinitely more cunning, baffling and powerful than alcohol ever was (at least for me).
On the plus side, I was already some years sober when shit started hitting the fan which means I had tools. I lean hard on the 11th step--conscious contact to stay sane and keep in touch with what the next right thing is. The Buddhists have a saying, a joy shared is a joy doubled, a sorrow shared is a sorrow halved. Along these lines--the biggest help to me was staying in touch with my peeps, and letting them IN on my suffering so they can help carry the weight. As the Barbara Streisand song goes, "people who [know they] need people are the luckiest people in the world."
*****
When my dad died last May, it was complicated and unexpected grief. He was a father to me, but also a perpetrator. That makes for some tangled threads in your nervous system. Over 15 years I'd processed my feelings; surely there couldn't be more to unearth?
Being estranged from my family of origin, I didn't even find out he had died until weeks after it happened. On Friday May 20th, around 4 pm my best friend called and said "I have something to tell you, and it's going to be hard to hear. Your dad died. He died on May 4th" I rose from the sofa and walked over to lean on against my fireplace, though it I felt like I had floated there. "They had the memorial service on Tuesday." She added. Staring into the large mirror that perches on the slate tiles, I saw my face and recognized that I was weeping. I landed back in my body. I didn't expect this reaction to hearing my dad was dead. Not for the man who had ultimately stolen my life—the one that could have been— as his own disease took what it wanted from me as a child. I'd wondered over the years, how it would feel to hear that either of my now estranged parents had died. These imaginings convinced me it would be relief; a sense of freedom I would encounter: never pain.
I wept and hung up the phone, scrambling to search for an obituary. There it was in black and white. His photo, a turtle-like aged white man holding a massive glass of red wine in the foreground. Of course. Words crafted by my eldest sister scooped my insides like someone coring a melon. I'd been written out of the family. This obituary listed three daughters. I am the fourth-born daughter, once wishing to be dead, still very much alive. I had a recovery meeting planned at 630; God's timing was kind. I went to the meeting and poured out my pain into the community.
In the coming days, I oriented to my higher power. I oriented to nature. I put my hand flat and warm against my own chest to offer a loving touch, comfort. I listened, in stillness, for what needed to be heard. I tended to the sensations as they stormed through my body. Migraines, hip pain, shoulder tension, tightness in my Achilles' tendons, and numbness in my left foot. ‘I hear you, I love you, I am listening.’ I said it again and again, and I meant it. I turned to friends: two-legged, four-legged, and the ones standing 30 feet tall and splendid with branches and leaves. They listened. They held space. They, too, offered comfort. I carried myself into the offices of my professional support as though my life depended on it. As a 3-time survivor of suicide attempts, it felt like it did. One of my doctors ushered me into his office when I told him the news, and he calmly said "survivors of trauma like yours often turn on themselves when their parent dies, suicide rates are high. It's quite miraculous that you are here, talking to me and not hospitalized, or…" In the silence that followed I trust we both considered some worst-case scenarios-- the places, this springboard of grief could have landed me, instead of here. This information fuelled the stubborn one inside of me to 'fucking prove' the opposite true in my case. I remembered my first sponsor pointing out to me "Honey when someone hurts you, you respond with 'I'll show you! I'll hurt me!' " I made a silent vow that I'd tend to myself, no matter what. I prayed for strength and direction to increase my self-care. I followed the impulses that led to gentle places and plugged my ears to dull the siren call of addictive behaviors beckoning me to pick them up under the guise of comfort measures. I no longer wish to be complicit in the destruction of myself. My foundation in recovery affords me the ability to choose freedom instead.
*****
What I did with my grief was start a Substack about grief.
But like, grief as a party. Grief as the best party with the most honored guests, but also disco lights and chandeliers and plush velvet sofas and manicured gardens and endless deliveries of pizza from some guy in a rabbit suit. Picture a marble-floored villa in Italy (never been there, but ...). Picture an un-ironically kitschy hotel ballroom in Boise, Idaho. Picture your high school gym. Picture everyone who's ever lost someone, there in an outfit they were allowed to pilfer from their favorite retailer. Ready to rock, to cry, to hug it out, to hang out, to talk it through, to listen. That's what I do when I write and edit this weird thing I call GRIEVER's BALL. It's going to be a podcast, too (which is where those who are at least Gen X adjacent and/or raised on MTV will get the title) but I'm having technical storage issues that I'm not technical enough to solve.
It sounds weird but feels good to celebrate grief as something sacred and worth lifting up. And more than any other project I've done in the past (and I am addicted to art/writing/music projects among other things), the feedback I get is .... beyond affirming. It's kind of a baby still; I only just started it in October '22.
*****
I hate this prompt. I hate it because it’s necessary and it forces me to look at my prior failed attempts at sobriety. The scene and the setting for each of these failures varied a bit, but the universal trend is that each failure involved my family on some level. My family is and always will be my hard shit.
I love my family but they are a mess. When I was drinking, there was nothing I loved more than a good, messy trip home. Nothing made me feel better about my life choices than a quick trip to rural Florida. “See, I’m not so bad!” I’d reassure myself like this every time I hopped back on my flight — usually hungover as hell — to whatever hip city I was living in at the time. I’m outta here suckers!
Yeah, I’m not proud of it.
Now that I’m sober, going home feels like meandering through a mine field. Will I be triggered by my dad’s morose late night drinking or my sister’s most recent saga of poor decision making? How long will I be there before someone offers me a drink? How will I say no without triggering them?
Here is what I have learned in the last 19 months: if I don’t want to relapse, I need a plan. I need to go for a run every day to give myself 30 (or 45) minutes of family free time. I need to give myself tasks in the kitchen during dinnertime to occupy my mind away from the glasses in everyone else’s hands. And last, but most importantly, I don’t go home without my emotional support Trolli Sour Brite Crawlers.
Do you know what these delightfully sugary, processed as hell gummies are? If not, please proceed to your local seedy gas station and I promise you will find them in a wonderfully cheap looking neon blue package. The Sour Brite Crawlers are my favorite, and I’ve sampled a highly questionable but sufficiently diverse selection of sour gummies in my life. So, I can assure you they are the fucking best.
I easily go through 4 packs of them on any 96-hour trip home. And you know what? I don’t judge myself for it because it keeps me sober. Maybe your treat of choice is ice cream. Maybe it’s chocolate, or maybe you’re really crazy and it’s just carbs of any variety. Just find your treat of choice and cling to it my friends.
That’s my advice. Sour gummies, morning runs, and tasks to keep yourself distracted. That’s it. That’s all I got.
*****
This is a song
Cake cake cake
I stuff my face with cake.
And when the cake is gone
I go and buy more cake.
I rip out old ass boxwoods
Planted in my youth
By the same folks that I grieve
And then I eat more cake.
I think of grandpop’s screenhouse
Build to house his violence
I think of all who live in fear
In poverty and sadness
I think about my privilege
And who was sacrificed for it
I donate cash to one in need
And then I buy more cake.
*****
If you like this story, please consider a donation so we can publish more like it.
