One surprising thing about grief is how lonely it can be.
I might be being completely unfair, but from where I sit, it feels like unless you are making an event of your grief, or presenting an uncomplicated picture, pain can go un-noticed.
That makes me mad, and very resentful. Partly at myself, for being unable to break through and communicate my needs. But as I established before, my grief comes at the 'end' of a process in which silence became a habit. So, it's difficult for me to shout about my needs now, when they are most intense.
Maybe this is something that is particular to my experience, and by extension to the experience of others who have come through the long-term illness of a loved one? I don't know and I wish I did. I really wish I did.
Maybe it is also that some kinds of grief, or some characteristics of the griever, are considered more or less deserving of attention by others?
I've been told, or felt, implicitly, that:
I'm young (er - than my Mother) and therefore more resilient (I'd like to see irrefutable evidence that resilience is negatively correlated with age before I believe it);
I'm at a stage in my life where I have other things to worry about (jobs, contracts, rent, boyfriend) and that therefore I am lucky to be too busy to be grieving intensely.
I am 'strong'.
'Everyone' goes through the loss of a parent - it's a normal part of life.
My Dad was old, so it's 'better this way'.
And the worst of all: 'He is still around, so there's nothing to be sad about'.
All of these things, heard or imagined, have silenced my grief and given more fuel to my rage. Towards myself, and towards the people to whom I expected to be able to share myself unreservedly, but with whom I am being completely inauthentic.
I might be being completely unfair, but from where I sit, it feels like unless you are making an event of your grief, or presenting an uncomplicated picture, pain can go un-noticed.
That makes me mad, and very resentful. Partly at myself, for being unable to break through and communicate my needs. But as I established before, my grief comes at the 'end' of a process in which silence became a habit. So, it's difficult for me to shout about my needs now, when they are most intense.
Maybe this is something that is particular to my experience, and by extension to the experience of others who have come through the long-term illness of a loved one? I don't know and I wish I did. I really wish I did.
Maybe it is also that some kinds of grief, or some characteristics of the griever, are considered more or less deserving of attention by others?
I've been told, or felt, implicitly, that:
I'm young (er - than my Mother) and therefore more resilient (I'd like to see irrefutable evidence that resilience is negatively correlated with age before I believe it);
I'm at a stage in my life where I have other things to worry about (jobs, contracts, rent, boyfriend) and that therefore I am lucky to be too busy to be grieving intensely.
I am 'strong'.
'Everyone' goes through the loss of a parent - it's a normal part of life.
My Dad was old, so it's 'better this way'.
And the worst of all: 'He is still around, so there's nothing to be sad about'.
All of these things, heard or imagined, have silenced my grief and given more fuel to my rage. Towards myself, and towards the people to whom I expected to be able to share myself unreservedly, but with whom I am being completely inauthentic.
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