Solaeris

Tonight's one of the bad nights. So I write. Poetry. And I wanted to share this one with you all. Hope that's okay. What You Have Left There's a moment when you realize What you have left is Less Than what you have to give And your thoughts drown out the silence in the night Shifted between your fourth cup of coffee And that ten-season series crime drama You've been binging for the past 3 weeks And for those brief moments you let yourself forget You believe yourself strong enough To stop it all from crashing down But hell, even Atlas shrugged And while those who cannot share your burden Compliment you on your ability to swim against the current You know the truth The memories act as driftwood Holding you afloat Just long enough to breathe again The gulf between what is And what should have been Is the abyss you tread For it isn't just the grief that Slams you into the wall It isn't just what's gone That takes your breath away It's all that will be And what won't.

It has to be one of the things that absolutely infuriates me. I never say that to anyone. What I DO say is, "Let me come over and clean your house" or "I'm taking you out to dinner" or "Drop the kids off at my house for a few hours so you can rest." We should be DOING instead of offering to DO. Because, you know what, in the midst of tragedy, people don't know "what they need." And having someone walk in and take care of the little things like walking the dog, or doing a load of laundry, or dropping off pre-made meals, those make ALL the difference. If you truly want to help a grieving friend, DO. Don't offer to DO. Just get in there and do it, whatever IT is. When my mom was dying, those last few days, in her home (mine now), when there were scores of people coming in and out to stand vigil, my best friend dropped every responsibility she had to drive over and pull me out of the crowd. She took me to dinner. We went to the beach and sat in the shade in our matching gravity chairs. She held my hand in public when I felt like I was going to collapse. Those were enormous small gestures, and her love got me through. Still does today. She was on vacation in North Carolina when my grandmother passed, and she started packing up her car to drive home 5 days early just to be with me. (I told her not to come, because it was a different situation, but the fact that she would have meant the world to me.) Those of us who have known grief have a better understanding of what to do for our loved ones when they are suddenly thrust into this world. So yeah, don't offer, just DO. Makes all the difference.

Thank you. It's awful in and of itself that there are others who do get it, because I wouldn't wish that on anyone. But it's also a comfort to know, even amidst grief and anger, that we aren't alone, even when it feels like it. I'm sorry for everything you're going through. And if I could give you a hug, I would.

Because it seems to be the default "advice" from people who aren't around for the truly hard times. Yes, it's actually great advice, but it seems like it's thrown around far too often for just about everything. I say it to myself; so maybe that makes me a hypocrite. I guess I'm okay with that sometimes. I'm just trying to deal, some days are better than others. Perhaps I should just appreciate that people are willing to express sympathy at all, which I do. I'm just frustrated.

The nights are bad. Most nights anyway. I'm a gamer. World of Warcraft. I've made some absolutely amazing friends through this game who are wonderful and incredible and supportive. But I'm a night owl. When everyone takes off at night and I'm alone, reality sets in. The silence is deafening sometimes. I understand that phrase now more than ever. It's what made me seek out some sort of support group or... well I guess this. I'm an open book and I wear my emotions like clothes. I'm also an empath - and that comes with more complications than I can even begin to sort through. I'm alone with my own emotions when it's quiet in the middle of the night. 3AM. I'm so used to being able to deal with everyone else's emotions that I've rarely been able to take stock of my own. Problem is, I can turn "off" the empath part of me at will. Bigger problem is, sometimes it won't turn back on, and I become numb. And now we've come full circle. One of the issues I'm trying to work through is "well-meaning people." Let me explain. The flowery, Hallmark-y, cliches that everyone says to anyone who's grieving (mostly because they don't know what else to say, and they're trying to make themselves feel better) literally make me roll my eyes and sing "blah blah blah" in my head. I can't help it. Grief lasts longer than sympathy, and the casual head-tilted "how are you doing" coupled with a side-hug and a pat on the back make me want to scream. What do you say to that? "I'm fine"? cause I'm not. "I'm doing okay"? cause I'm not. What about, "insert truth here?" People don't usually want to hear the truth; they want to hear, "I'm hanging in there," after which they'll say, "One day at a time" or "I'm here if you want to talk" - which they almost never mean absolutely, and they don't have to mean it because if they have to ASK "how are you doing" then they obviously aren't one of the handful of people who are part of your integral support network, and you'd likely not want to talk to them anyway. And then comes the side-hug and back pat. Rinse. Repeat. I promise, I'm not as jaded as I sound. I just have trouble dealing with people who claim to be "here for me" in the immediate aftermath but are nowhere to be found after the lasagnas have been eaten, and the funeral bill's been paid, and the flowers have died. Grief lasts longer than sympathy. Grief lasts longer than the support my mom's friends promised to show me but have since devolved into "liking" pictures of my cats on Facebook and pretending that's enough interaction with me for today. It's alarming and frustrating and intensely sad. Those who held my hand at her funeral can't spare five minutes to call and have a less-than-artificial conversation with me? What's even more sad, to some degree, is the people I've met in the ten years I've been playing World of Warcraft have been my rock. These people have never met me in person, but they don't shy away from the visceral, raw emotions and the gloopy, tear-filled breakdowns when it all gets to be too much sometimes. When everything blends together and I'm not even sure WHY I'm so emotional. Those moments are few and far between, but what does that say about people who've known me since I was 5 verses people I've known for less than 10 years but have never even met face-to-face? Writing is my outlet. I write a lot. I'm sorry that I'm using this thread as a sounding board. None of you know me. But you've shown me great support and understanding. Thank you for that. One step closer right? One day at a time. (eyeroll)

Thank you, both, so much for your responses and your kind words. I will check out all of the links supplied, as well as read through the other posts on these forums. I appreciate the advice and support; it means a great deal to know I'm not alone. Thank you, again. -Amanda

I'm not really sure where to start, but there are multiple categories this post could fall into, so I hope that's okay. Introductions. Sure. My name is Amanda. I'm 39 years old, I live in Pennsylvania, and I'm here because I've lost 4 people in the last 3 years, and I need some help figuring out how to deal with it all. I'm at the point where it's so overwhelming that I'm numb. So I'll start at the beginning. In March of 2014, a close friend of mine (Chris) passed very suddenly from complications of oxygen deprivation due to advanced Pneumonia and H1N1. I struggled to maintain after his death. I struggled with guilt over his death, even though I know there was absolutely no way I was even remotely responsible for it, I felt guilty. Maybe because I knew I wouldn't be able to make it in time to say goodbye (he lived in Illinois.) Two months later, in May of 2014, my mom was diagnosed with Uterine Cancer. So silver lining? At least this forced me to focus all of my energy into my mother and gave me time off from the endless waves of grief and guilt I felt over Chris. In November of 2014, after a complete hysterectomy and 6 sessions of Chemo, my mom was declared cancer-free. In April of 2015, during a routine scan, the doctors found multiple malignant tumors in my mother's liver. They gave her 12 months. She died 6 months later; October 2015. I told myself, and anyone else I could convince that I'd accepted my mother's inevitable death that moment in April when she said the word "terminal" out loud. I did accept it. But I never processed it. The only times I cried during those 6 months of hell were immediately after she told me, and the night before she died, when I broke down in anguish and fear in the middle of her kitchen, while she lay dying in the hospital bed in the next room. Everyone had gone for the night. It was just my mother and I alone in her house. And I finally understood what the word "orphan" meant. In May of this year, a friend I've had since grade school accidentally took her own life. She OD'd on heroin despite being sober for a year. Her husband had died suddenly 3 weeks prior. I haven't even tried to process her death. And finally, last week, July 20, my grandmother passed after battling dementia for 4 years. You'd think this would be the "easy" one in comparison. I got to say goodbye and tell her I loved her, even though she didn't know who I was for the past 3 years. Easy isn't a word I'd use right now. I'm exhausted. I'm completely and absolutely numb. I'm not dealing with any of these losses because I haven't the slightest idea how. I never even had a chance to properly grieve for Chris, but I don't even know what's proper anymore. I'm not on the edge or anything. I don't drink or use drugs. I quite enjoy living and I have a lot of things I'd like to see and do before I return to the Universe. But I owe it to myself to deal with this, and I recognize that I'm not. Therapy isn't an option at the moment, and I'm quite good at psycho-analyzing myself. I'm hoping maybe someone here could throw me a breadcrumb, or point me down a path towards feeling and doing rather then pretending everything's okay. I do have a fantastic support system who've been through all of this with me. But as supportive and incredible as they all are, none of them have suffered these losses or any number even close. I lean on them, but they're outside looking in. And that's okay. As much as I wish silently that they understood, I'm so, so thankful that they don't, I'm sorry for the long post. If you read this far, thank you. -Amanda