An Exercise in Futility

You know Mr. Koontz, for most people, life is like a hen house ladder. Shitty and short. You were born lucky. Maybe some day you entitled little degenerates will appreciate that. The Holdovers

Maybe you gotta feel lousy sometimes in order to feel better. Ordinary People

I was born lucky. Growing up, I had enough love and support, economic security, safety and good things to enjoy and look forward to to put me on a good path. Even after my mom passed away when I was 14, I still had those things. But I didn’t always believe it. And as I got older, that belief turned into a great big resentment that started living its best life in my head. 

Holding onto that resentment came with perks. Easy access to self-pity, self-righteousness, entitlement and playing the victim. It was easy not to hold myself accountable for poor choices, because I would just tell myself, “It’s not your fault. You didn’t have enough.”

But it also made me anxious, sad, angry, jealous and instilled in me a deep desire for control, especially of things I couldn’t. But instead of asking for help or letting others know how I felt, I worked very hard to appear as though I was doing great. But by the time I turned 30, that had become too hard to do.

I started working with a therapist. She was incredibly kind, empathetic, smart and able to say difficult things, including about me, in a way that I could hear them. Her name was Marianne. Early on she explained that the anger, resentment, anxiety and need for control were symptoms of something bigger. Part of our work together would be to figure out what the root cause was. It didn’t take long.

It was the grief I felt in response to my mom’s passing. I wasn’t convinced, but Marianne knew me pretty well by this time and I trusted her, so I listened. She explained that you learn to live with grief by going through it. At 14 years old, I didn’t know how to grieve in a healthy and productive way, probably didn’t want to learn and didn’t want to let on that I needed help. So instead, I ignored it by stuffing it away and focused my energy on making it appear that I was just fine.

She compared what I was doing to someone who cleans their room by shoving the mess under the bed or in the closet. The room looks clean, because the mess is hidden away. The problem was life was reminding me that my grief was stuffed away. And when it did in the form of other losses, they felt much more intense, and I resorted to thoughts, feelings and behaviors that only made things worse for me and often the people I cared about.

I couldn’t argue with her. At one point, I asked “You’re telling me I have to grieve something that happened 16 years ago?” That’s exactly what she was telling me. Then Marianne leaned toward me, put her hand on mine and with much kindness said, “Martha, if people knew how to grieve and were good at it, I and just about every other therapist would be out of a job.” She went on to explain that none of us get directions for how to grieve. We just do the best we can with what we have when confronted by it.

Marianne gave me reading material about processing grief and practices to help me learn to tolerate the pain of it. She worked hard to convince me that my need to be busy wasn’t about being productive but often about avoidance. And she told me time and again that getting through grief was not a solo sport. It requires human connection.

Mostly, she listened while I talked and often cried about my mom’s passing, my life without her and what I hoped for in the years ahead. She used what I shared with her to help increase my awareness and understanding of how holding onto grief was hurting me and those I cared about. I remember during one of our conversations her saying, “There is a very good reason we have the saying Hurt people hurt people.” I think she was trying to motivate me. We worked together for a little over two years and by the time we parted ways, I felt like a better version of myself.

But it was hard. It didn’t take long for me to fall into old bad habits. Marianne told me I could come back any time I thought it would be helpful, so I saw her a half dozen more times. At the session that would turn out to be our last, she compared what I was doing to building muscle and sustaining strength. It would be a lifelong commitment and take time. But if I stayed with it, I would see results. She also reminded me that the best way to get through grief was letting the people I loved know I was struggling. I remember thinking, “Well, shit!” and not in a good way. 

A couple months later, I visited my dad’s oldest brother who had cancer. By this time, his wife of many years and only son had both passed away, and he lived alone. A nurse visited him a few times each week and his three daughters, who lived in Chicago, made frequent trips to stay with him. My dad adored him and worried about him spending too much time alone, so he asked me if I had the time to stop by and see him, which I was happy to do.

When I arrived, I asked him how he was. He shared that the previous morning he watched a bird fly into the large picture window in his living room. It died. He spent the rest of the day crying. He said, “I don’t think I was only crying about that bird.” 

My uncle was a captain in the U.S. Army during World War II right out of high school. Over the years he had shared some funny stories about serving in the war. The day I visited him, he told me a couple more stories about his war experience, but they weren’t funny. As we talked, he said, “Grief is patient. It waits for you.” A few months later, he passed away.

In the years since I worked with Marianne, I have had many opportunities to grieve the loss of people I love, including my dad and brother, and the loss of opportunities and relationships. Grief ebbs and flows in my life, and it is still hard, but I do my best to go through it. Experience has taught me that the more I let myself feel it when it shows up, the faster it goes away. I have come to accept that grieving is a way to honor what was lost, what it meant to me and that to resist it is an exercise in futility and only leaves you feeling worse.

About a year ago, I was talking with my oldest sister who has been a constant and loving presence in my life. She is one of the people who made sure I had enough in the years after my mom died. During our conversation, she said something that made me realize she didn’t think she had done enough during that time. I was grateful to have the chance to tell her that I knew for a fact that she had done plenty. At that moment, I felt how lucky I was.   

Hurt people hurt others, but

luckily, healed people heal others.

Safe people shelter others.

Free spirits free others.

Enlightened people illuminate others.

And love always wins.

So shine your light of love on all

who may cross your path in life

because what you do matters.

Author Unknown