May Your Grief Spiral You to Love
This essay mentions suicide. If that topic or the topics of loss and grief are triggering to you, in an unhelpful way, please do not read this essay.
I sit at my computer, rubbing my hands together in a subtle prayer: May these words be salve, to both my heart and to the hearts of the readers. May this share be an act of revolutionary healing and love.
As war broke out in the Middle East, I commemorated the 20th anniversary of my father’s death by suicide. My dad took his own life a handful of weeks after my 16th birthday - in October of 2003. I can never remember the exact date that he passed away. It was “Columbus Day” that year. At the time, Columbus Day was still “celebrated”.
I have a hard time remembering my dad’s birthday, too. You see, my dad and my mom separated before my first birthday. I also have a hard time remembering the exact month he left. Trauma does that to you - it can jumble your memories or suppress them, entirely.
As the anniversary of his passing neared, throughout the month of September, I had been working on an essay about my relationship with my father and how his life and tragic death impacted me.
That essay detailed the trajectory of his alcoholism, his intermittent physical presence and complete emotional absence, and his ultimate act of abandonment. I shared my tailspin of grief following his death and the events that truly catapulted me into real healing (almost 20 years later).
A majority of that essay is not necessary nor helpful to share in this current moment of Global pain and despair.
And, I do believe that some of what I wrote about healing may provide some insight for those of us moving through grief, either directly or indirectly.
In times of turmoil, Art is a revolutionary act of resistance and peace. The World needs Art during trying times. Words are my Art. This is my offering.
Last year, on the 19th anniversary of my father’s passing, I wrote:
“Miraculously, there are days that go by where I don’t consciously think of my dad and the mark that his passing left on me… I never could have imagined that many years ago. When I think of him today, I do my best to see him at his best. And this weekend, my heart does not feel as heavy as it did in the past. I am well.”
When I wrote those words, I had more or less fragmented my dad’s death. I had done and continued to do a lot of mental gymnastics to make excuses for why he was not a good father and the reasons he took his own life.
Then, in August, I was rocked by a photo of my son:
Staring back at me was the resemblance of Jim Sparkman. A deep, guttural sadness permeated from very tiny crevices inside of me and reached all the way to my tear ducts. I cried real tears. Sadness was not an emotion I accessed after the passing of Jim.
A few weeks after that wave of grief, I was driving Sloan and Silas to meet friends. I looked in my rearview mirror and it happened again. My eyes met the reflection of Silas’ car seat mirror and I saw the face of my father. I could not stop nor control the stream of tears. The deep sadness I had buried for decades crested the surface of my Soul.
Grief is not a linear event.
I’m not sure I subscribe to the stages of grief. But, to borrow from the common vernacular, I spent the first few years oscillating between anger and “bargaining”. The last time my dad called my house, I answered the phone and without speaking to him, I immediately passed it to my mom. I never heard from him nor saw him again. The thought of that action haunted me for years.
When my father passed, sadness was too vulnerable of an emotion for me to feel - it remained that way for almost 20 years. Sadness leaves me soft. I did not feel safe enough to be soft. Anger was an easier feeling to access - a safer one - and that anger brought on destruction. For the first couple of years that followed his death, I completely obliterated my life through unhealthy actions.
The pain inside of me was so great, I could not live with it. Each day, I sought ways to cope with what I was unable to bear - I had to take it out on someone and the someone who I took it out on was me (through alcohol or drugs or abusive, unhealthy relationships).
My pain manifested as rage.
Through divine intervention, I got sober from alcohol and hard/prescription drugs almost 2.5 years after my dad’s death. As I moved through the early layers of sobriety, I touched some of the pains of my upbringing. And, I still not did not feel safe enough to express the true sadness I held around his life and death.
At the time, I dealt with my grief by compartmentalizing it. I told myself stories to make his passing more palatable - both to myself and others. I needed those stories at the time. And, I used the metaphorical debris left from my self-destruction to either hide behind or to use as weapons or armor. I was both numb and guarded. I protected myself from real connection and love because I knew the cataclysmic pain of loss.
For a long time, I managed my grief similarly to the Spiritual Bypassing notion found on this image:
(Photo Credit: @VoseSomatic)
I tried to push down my pain. I truly thought that healing would emerge when I was able to neutralize my experience and remove the painful charge. For many years, I actually thought that true healing would manifest in a monk-like state of “light and love”.
I am learning that time will not erase the truth - the fact that my father killed himself will never change. And, that fact will always carry pain. Yet, I can be with that pain today. And that pain can be with my joy and blessings and my peace. My light and love coexists with my sadness, rage, grief, and hurt.
And that is where my healing lies, to hold my pain - my disappointment and abandonment and loss - in the same hands and heart that I also hold my joy and my faith and my abounding wonderment.
Today, when I see a resemblance of my father in the beautiful, miraculous face of my son, the sadness I experience invites a softness. And that softness creates a tenderness. And that tenderness creates an expressive empathy. And with that empathy, a deep connection to my kindness, compassion, and humanity.
Right now, I see a lot of people expressing their pain through fear and anger and rage. It’s easy for me to see it… As I just shared, I also once expressed my pain in that very same way.
And, I am witnessing them loose their humanity through their pain. I see people who I deeply love exercise the mental gymnastics required to justify the suffering of others because of the suffering they have endured.
And I can see it so easily because I, too, created more suffering as I coped with my suffering. I, too, justified terrible actions in the name of my pain. That said, I hope that we can hold compassion for those who are speaking and acting through the lenses of their fear and anger and rage.
I have found myself wishing that I could help others jump to their sadness. Tears of sadness purify a place that tears of anger are unable to reach.
It is my greatest prayer that those suffering the most are able to hold all of their emotions at once…And, I also know that that is a fantasy.
I cannot coax anyone on a path of healing any faster than their journey calls. Yet, it is my deep prayer that those suffering can access their authentic healing and wholeness much faster than I did - it took me 20 years.
This is my prayer for those suffering most right now:
I pray that you can find a way to meet your pain with humanity. To remember that God/Spirit/Nature/the Universe has not forsaken you. I pray that you seek your Higher Power in your moments of hardship.
I pray that someday, you can take the broken pieces of your lives and mend them with gold.
I pray that as you hold and disperse your anger, you remember to also reach for your love. I pray that you extend the same level of love and safety to all Beings, everywhere, as you would to your own.
I pray that you can hold your pain in the same tender hands that you hold your peace and joy.
I pray that your grief may spiral you to love more fully. I pray that you feel held.
Amen.
If you or someone you know is struggling or in crisis, help is available. Call or text 988 or chat 988lifeline.org to reach the 988 Suicide & Crisis Lifeline.