On grief
After many years of both being a human and working in the mental health field, I have come to realize that so much of the work is grief work. When we think of grief, our minds generally fall upon the obvious: the loss of someone. As far as I can see, we grieve for many, many more things. I lost my job. I can’t find a job. I was dumped. To heal, I have to go no-contact with my abusive family. I can’t live the life I want. That person didn’t show up for me the way I needed (again). I am chronically ill and the medical system doesn’t care. And then let’s expand out: the policies of my government are destroying my community. Climate change is bearing down on us. People are suffering and dying at the hands of tyrannical, power-mongering politicians and billionaires. As I write there is an active genocide happening in Gaza. It is all too much. Our hearts harden and the actions that follow become protective and reactive instead of responsive. How can we continue to access our hearts during this late stage capitalistic hellscape? We must grieve. And then take action. And reach for each other. And grieve.
Grief in Therapy
A common definition of grief is deep sorrow. In general, people do not enter into therapy because they are awash with deep sorrow. They come with a long list of things they are doing that are helping them avoid feelings of deep sorrow. Oppressive bouts of rumination, rage, jam-packed schedules leaving them wildly anxious and exhausted, over-engaging with substances/sex/food/shopping, and my go-to, an inflamed external critic-are all ways to avoid feeling the feelings of grief. In session, it is common that when grief starts arising, talking becomes accelerated, the brain trying frantically to remain attached to the thoughts as a way to keep the feelings down. If there are tears, the mouth often will clamp down, the breath will be held, and the fists will clench. Why do we do this? I feel like if I let it out, it will be an ocean I will drown in is the general theme. The painful irony here is that the ocean is the medicine, and the waves can bring you back to shore. After the loss of my father many years ago, I sought a new therapist. In our early sessions, I spoke 100 miles a minute and she kept stopping me and getting me to breathe, not even at this point to feel the feelings, but to allow the space for the feelings to arise. I wanted to tell her to fuck off; it made me so mad. And yet, I kept returning and eventually, I let the waves take me to shore.
Working With Grief
How to work with deep personal sorrow living in our beings in the context of never-ending unprecedented, unrelenting times? Baby fucking steps. If we can. It can feel like water against rock, but in my experience, generally slow movement is what works. If caring for yourself feels selfish (it is not), anchor into the knowing that the more present you can be in your own mind and body, the more present you can show up for family, for friends, for the collective. Avoiding grief can drive us out of ourselves pretty effectively.
Here are some beginning suggestions I give to clients and/or engage with in sessions:
Try to avoid isolation. Reach out to others if that feels available. Look to those who can show up well most of the time. If possible, avoid those who clearly are unable to show up, who make you feel worse.
The contractions of deep grief can come hard and strong. Through engaging them, you can begin to build trust that they will pass. Create both a plan for how to breathe through them and also an aftercare plan. And by this I mean literally-like write a note on your phone or on a sticky with self-made instructions on how you will ride out the contraction and some things you can do afterwards to care for yourself.
If you are afraid to lean into the feelings, set a timer. For 15 minutes (or more or less), I will open to these feelings, and then I will stop and engage in a gentle practice such as calling a friend, going for a walk, listening to a funny podcast, etc.
But what does opening to feelings even mean? Laying there quietly and notice what you notice. Noticing sensations in your body. I feel numb. Wonderful-you have located a feeling. Noticing the urge to avoid (modern classic: reaching for the phone). Or maybe it is a full on heaving cry. Notice that.
Notice that you survived the feelings.
If you fall into protective ways of being, be gentle with yourself. Identify what is harmful and what is harm reductive. Drinking to blacking out is harmful. Maybe watching hours of your favourite comfort show while eating snacks and occasionally even double screening is harm reductive for you. For some that is harmful.
As best as you are able, meet yourself where you are at.
The point of all this-and indeed, it can feel entirely pointless in the beginning-is to build tolerance/a relationship to the feelings. The more you can hang out in these feelings, the more healing can occur, the more you can open to new ways of being.
One last point: as most of us know, healing is not linear. One week you can be riding the contractions, easily caring for them and yourself, and then the next week, you could be knocked on your ass. This is normal. This is part of the process. Healing is spiralic. As time passes, you will eventually be able to see you have in fact moved forward on your path.
Grief and Therapy
The purpose of seeking therapy for grief, as I see it, is to have someone hold unconditional space for us as we slowly begin taking a look around at the contents of our experience. Because of the intensity of modern life, and because our western world is so breathtakingly avoidant of grief, it can be hard to find people to witness and hold space for us in our sorrow. Having a reliable place where feelings are welcomed and messiness is encouraged can tip the scales enough to where moving forward begins to feel possible. If you are eyeing therapy as a support to process grief in your life but not quite sure yet, please feel most welcome to reach out to get a better sense if us working together would be a good fit for you right now.
