for when you are not doing great
dispatch 66
A quick housekeeping note: I will likely not be posting with a regular cadence as I continue to navigate grief. Paid subscriptions have been turned off, and I don’t anticipate turning them back on at this time.
hi all. Whew, keeping up or even stepping in here has proven to be more difficult than I originally thought, but I’m trying to stay easy with myself. I’m writing this more conversationally because honestly, the idea of writing an actual essay feels truly impossible right now. All of the things that used to come easily have become difficult against the waves of grief, exhaustion, and disinterest. As we head towards the new year and all of the new, hopeful energy, I wanted to send this one out to everyone else who feels like a cosmic bummer right now. You’re not alone. And maybe I want to feel less alone too.
In a little over a week it will be nine months since my mother died. The length of time we spent connected by sinew and blood, and the absence still feels that keen, like something crucial is missing from my body, my orbit, my worldview. Even now I can almost hear her gently lift the veil to remind me that in truth I was two weeks late, arriving on a night when she had made meatloaf which ruined the dish for her forever.
No one asks you how you’re doing after this much time. I understand why. To truly acknowledge just how long the arm of grief is if you have not experienced the loss of a close loved one would be massively debilitating. A person cannot function with a boogeyman like that in the corner. Better to collectively ignore it. Better to think that those who are unable to hide this pain are simply sensitive, outliers. Better to think that when it happens to us, we will be more prepared. Or, more humanly, to feel lost ourselves, wrapped in our own grief and overwhelm and unable to take on the possibility of something more.
I understand, I understand, I understand.
I have been on the other side of the equation. I have wondered why a grieving loved one doesn’t just get back to the things they love, their routines, their joys. What I did not and could not understand until it happened to me was that you can become a different person in an instant. Suddenly none of what came before fits.
I learned this week that the DSM, that old crook on the shelf with other unsavory three-letter acronyms like KPIs and the BMI, now includes a diagnosis of Prolonged Grief Disorder, indicated when someone still feels significantly impacted by their grief six months to a year later.* How strange to diagnose someone as being inconveniently human. I spend most days mapping my inconvenient humanness lately.
I am not doing well. I am getting used to saying that because it is true, but it does not prettily fit over the hole in conversation where “fine” is supposed to go. I have been sleeping ten hours a night, mostly broken sleep, punctuated by pitch-dark wake-ups all pounding heart and fear. I reach for control everywhere I can find it, running through tasks like nobody’s business but ignoring myself and my body at every turn.
Rest is impossible, quiet is impossible. I hold immense judgment about the difficulties I face and how my body is carrying me through grief. Physically, I feel increasingly bad because I am not able to do most of the things that support my wellbeing. I have taken to tricking myself into basic tasks. Every night I hold my current fiction book hostage, telling myself I cannot read it until I floss and brush my teeth, because I am not entirely sure it would happen otherwise. Every week I feel like a bad partner, bad friend, bad family member, well versed in all of the ways I can’t seem to keep up. I hold the shame of not measuring up with both hands until it becomes a shield of avoidance.
I am trying to support myself through it, to reach out for support from others. But there is a gaping hole in my support system where my mother used to be and I feel it deeply each day. I do not know how to patch it. I write all of this not to wrap it up with a “What’s working for me” suggestion but to say that it’s actually okay and valid, I am learning, to be not be doing well. And that moments of joy and happiness can still find you here. All of this is part of it, and it doesn’t need to be shined up as some turning point in a hero’s journey when I am just trying to figure out how to keep breathing. If all I can do right now is turn towards the thing, then I guess that will need to be enough.
And so, if your hopes for 2025 feel modest or nonexistent too, know that you’re not alone. If the world feels impossible, you are definitely not alone. We don’t need to make meaning out of our pain for it to be valid, we just get to be here now, facing whatever comes next.
*If diagnosis is supportive to you and your situation or helps you get accommodations you need to get by, I totally get it. I hold no judgment for those of us trying to juggle the impossible intricacies of capitalism to get by. I DO hold massive judgment for a system that seeks to pathologize normal human reactions because they get in the way of worker productivity.
Some things bringing me comfort right now:
Putting birdseed in the feeders. Watching familiar friends come back again and again. Conversations with bluejays.
Hand-knit socks. My mother’s cousin is a prolific knitter, turning out socks more easily than I can do most things. I have dozens of pairs and they have been all I want to put on my feet lately.
Chamomile. Sleep has been a struggle and I’ve started ending my nights with chamomile lately. Chamomile has always been a periphery herb for me…an “always the bridesmaid, never the bride” (what a phrase) relationship. But I have been desperately needing the sun of their little blooms and I’m grateful for their patience with me as I noticed their quiet power.
Deer watching. Almost every single day I see deer outside our living room window. Sitting and watching them, staying still so as not to startle them, has become a meditation.
Medicine channeling. My creative drive has been so limited but I’ve strangely had three herbal tea recipes pop into my brain unannounced, accompanied by an urgent need to make them. They’ve been a hormonal support formula, grief and heart tonic, and gentle liver support formula…exactly what I’ve been needing right now. Grateful for moments of creation amidst it all.
How to Keep House While Drowning: A Gentle Approach to Cleaning and Organizing by KC Davis. While I generally can keep everything that is not me together, this book was like a really gentle hug. The tips are practical and if you hold any shame or trauma around cleanliness or connect your worth to how your home appears (hello, fellow first gen kids! 👋🏼), this one is for you.
in grief,
lisa
Well, *uck, I hear you on the DSM and applaud your critique loudly. I think getting my psychiatric certification pushed me further away from its artifices and there are so few of us in this profession willing to embrace a different vision that doesn’t pathologize “normal.” Or try to medicate it for profit. (Not a knock on ethical prescribing!)
I am proud of you turning toward the thing, the loss, the gaping gap. To feel it, as gd difficult and incomprehensible it can be…it was for me too. I love you dearly and am with you.
Oof, so nice to read your words. I’m right there with you in grief. I lost my mother in September and this has proven to be harder than I imagined. The world is not the same without her by my side. Sending you lots of love from afar.