Anatomy of a Grief Spiral
On angler fish, cute crying, and hallmark holidays.
Some days I just can’t get it together.
I think about all the things I should be doing—writing, working out, practicing my golf game or getting a jump on work—from the confines of a piece of furniture designed for rest and comfort.
While the mind reels of productivity, the rest of me growls with hunger. My appetite for consumption is diverse. I want coffees and videos and to download books on my Kindle app that I’ll read half of.
On these days, I chase my tail until I wind up in bed, wired and annoyed, and go fitfully into dreams about trying and failing to hail a taxi from my high school home room.
When I’m smart, I realize that this hunger is actually the opposite. I don’t need to consume, something needs to come out. More often than not, feelings need to be felt.
The apathy is so heavy that it pins me to the couch like the X-ray vest at the dentist’s office. But I don’t want to see what’s inside. The mania distracts me from the contractions so I can avoid whatever feels so scary and weird. I’ll bury my baby under snacks and podcasts.
I’m going crazy with the metaphors here, but that weighty apathy is like the check engine light for my heart. That, and a sudden craving for nostalgic food like french onion dip and Cactus Cooler, is a pretty good indicator that my inner world is ready to come to the surface. And like the angler fish that famously ascended to the surface for a glimpse of the sun before her death, the experience feels foreign and dangerous.
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If I am good, and allow the ugly fish to see the sun, the crusty coating of apathy falls away to reveal a thick layer of frustration. It will remind me that I need to be making more money and doing something more meaningful with my precious life.
One layer below that, a heavy fog of fear. There’s so many things I could do, but what if???
The longer I dig, the younger my feelings become. Soon they’re primal and visceral. They don’t express in thoughts or plans so much as whimpers, tiny hands stretched upward, hoping so badly to be held.
If I am brave enough to be here for a while and not dive back in to the comforting distractions of work and the world, I realize how it all still comes down to this simple, obvious, everpresent, clichéd thing that will never go away. I can salve the wound and wrap it in a million miles of bandages and it still seeps through.
In the four-and-a-half years since she died, I’ve learned so many ways that grief can manifest. There’s the classic: loud sobs and gnashing of teeth. There’s the latent version, wherein boiling anger sputters out all over your loved ones and leaves blisters on your heart. There’s the quiet kind that grows like an untended vine and chokes everything around you including your plans and your joy.
In the spaciousness of time since we lost her, new dimensions of the loss have emerged. We’ve progressed mightily past the cute tears to the subconscious processing stage where she comes to me in dreams every night. We have long conversations where she tells me she’s getting transferred to Lompoc.
The dreams are comforting but inconvenient. I hoped I could be done being sad. They remind me that everything that I’m feeling ties back to that empty place in my heart where she used to live. It’s a black hole that warps everything around it. It reshapes my experiences and my expectations in its image.
In real life, I moved across the country (again), found a home I’m really excited about (again!) and I’m about to celebrate my first wedding anniversary with a man she never met (wtf?). I’m wondering what the hell I’m supposed to do now? I feel a little helpless, a little like the world is bigger and more confusing than it used to be. Like I could use some comfort from the person whose job it was to protect me from cold winds, hot stoves, strangers, and existential dread.
Turns out, when you lose that person, the ground drops out from under you. You feel alone in the wilderness, even if you’re not.
Her aliveness was weight-bearing. I could always make the choice to call her if I needed advice or the recipe for hot beef sandwiches. I could go to her house and watch old episodes of What Not to Wear on her comfy couch. Or I could go the other route and not call her—be a big girl. Whether or not to connect with my mother used to be a choice. She was the fulcrum under the lever of my independence.
Now that she’s gone, the lever is just a dead, flat board. And I’m just here on the same level as everyone else, alone. She brought me into this world and jokily threatened to take me out. Now she’s just a wispy memory that we sometimes share, laughing into our drinks and blinking away the tears.
I’m burdened by all the questions I can’t ask her. I’ll never know what she would tell me to do in this weirdass economy or how she might have influenced my wedding dress selection. Independence that was once boldly chosen is now the default setting. And a lot of times, it feels like being well and truly helpless.
I have to put these California plates on my car, what do I do?! Every house is over a million dollars, what do we DO?! My egg frittata never comes out quite right, what was your secret?!
I’m not mourning the loss of my mother because she was the queen of sage wisdom, although she was, in her way. I’m lamenting the fact that the one person who was supposed to always be there, to understand me, and who had a vested interest in how my life turned out, is gone. And that cut feels deeper than the Pacific.
There’s a strong impulse to fill it with something. You can fill it with the world, paying people to fill her role on a fractional basis like doctors, therapists and delivery drivers. You can fill it with yourself; make yourself as big as possible so no one knows that some days you feel like a hungry baby. Replace her with your new family, friends, TV, trips, snacks, smut. You could try God. But it’s the kind of hole that will eat all those things and continue to crave endlessly.
Craving peanut butter and one of her pointless voicemails about running to the grocery store. Craving passive income streams and a night on the couch with her and TLC’s Friday night lineup. Anything to feel a little less alone, helpless, and scared.
But that’s kind of the deal here, isn’t it? We ARE alone and pretty helpless. Running to mommy and her memory is as much a crutch as a Tony Robbins seminar or a pint of Haagen-Dazs.
So I’m coming to terms with that. Realizing I’m alone and it’s okay, and that’s probably the next best step I can take in this month’s episode of the grieving/healing show.
If I can confront how alone I feel having lost the person who was “supposed” to love me, I can open my eyes to the absolute magic of the relationships that come with no such obligation. And I can make room for new connections that feel warm and loving, knowing that they’ll never replace her, but can honor her legacy.
So call your mom. Or stand on business and don’t. And if you’re a card carrying member of the Dead Moms Club (DMC) like me, turn the tables and be a mom to yourself or your friends. Lord knows the world could use some cozy mom energy right now.
Less apathy, more hot beef sandwiches, and keep swimming toward the surface.
Great piece for mom's day!
Radiant photo of Mom and Kay!
I want to find forever
In each moment that we spend
Cause when its gone
It won’t be back again
NGDB