I always forget that one grief is tied to all the others. That one loss revives all the others. That—at least for me—someone else's loss, someone else's pain can reactivate my own.
Grief is an everlasting, tricky companion. It lies dormant. And then, unbidden, it wakes up, butchering your heart all over again.— Liza Bernstein (@itsthebunk) September 6, 2016
I experienced my first loss at age four. My father died. His name was Harry. When I was a little older I found out he had taken his own life.
Then three years later, my grandfather died. His name was also Harry. I called him Papa. His second heart attack killed him.
My mother and I moved back and forth through different countries, and the losses kept piling up: Loss of home, of family, of friends, of community, of schools, and even of landscapes.
My family—a dual lineage of stalwart survivors—handled loss with a combination of denial and a stiff upper lip, and therefore, so did I.
We didn't know any better.
More people died. My great-grandmother. I called her Gran Gran.
My three remaining grandparents. Bobba, Zaider, and Marzie.
And, they have kept on dying to this day.
My two aunts. Beebee and Pam.
My Cousin Al.
And, more beloveds: Beloved friends, beloved colleagues, beloved mentors. Grant, Jody, and more.
And just a week ago, an 18-year old boy I had never met took his own life. His parents are friends of my dearest friend. Their kids were at school together, played together, grew up together.
I have never met his parents. But my friend's grief, the boy's family's grief, the children's grief, the community's grief, the fact that like my father, the boy took his own life, all of that made a beeline for my heart and ripped it to shreds all over again.
It has taken decades, but over the past few years I have learned that the only way to handle grief is to face it, to name it, to let it live in you, to let it hijack you, to surrender to it.
The practice does not come naturally to me. It explains why I am so surprised and resentful each time I am overcome with a sadness so acute and painful it stops me in my tracks.
I have never met his parents. But my friend's grief, the boy's family's grief, the children's grief, the community's grief, the fact that like my father, the boy took his own life, all of that made a beeline for my heart and ripped it to shreds all over again.
It has taken decades, but over the past few years I have learned that the only way to handle grief is to face it, to name it, to let it live in you, to let it hijack you, to surrender to it.
The practice does not come naturally to me. It explains why I am so surprised and resentful each time I am overcome with a sadness so acute and painful it stops me in my tracks.
I leave you with the song that says it all for me: Jim Carroll's "People Who Died." Everything about it, the raw, punk sound, the lyrics, the absurdity, it all speaks to me like nothing else.
I chose this version from YouTube as it showcases Carroll's lyrics.
I chose this version from YouTube as it showcases Carroll's lyrics.
