Holiday creep

A colleague of mine recently referred to this time of year as the therapist Olympics. Most of our clients are a little more… unhinged than usual. Rightly so! Days are shorter and colder. Families of origin repeat patterns that range from frustrating to harmful. Sobriety is tested. Finances are tight. Grief is magnified. Caregiving is harder than usual. Basically The Holidays amplifies whatever was already difficult to navigate. While the culture at large insists upon sparkle and glamor and gratitude and consumerism and food and booze in excess, some of us are struggling. 

There are any number of lists out there about how to combat the holiday blues. Of course I agree with most of them: be mindful of how much you're drinking; keep moving your body; make time for yourself, etc. But I also want to add my usual caveat: it's ok to be struggling. In fact, many people are at this time of year. I bet if you admit to someone close to you (or even someone in line at the grocery store honestly) that you aren't filled with joy right now, they would agree. You’re not alone if you’re not feeling sparkly.

If you feel like you are alone in those feelings, it's tempting to self isolate. People are often afraid of spreading their anxiety or sadness to others and instead opt to keep it to themselves. Sometimes time alone does help, and if that helps you, go nuts. But also remember that distress and grief and anxiety are better shared with others. It lightens the load to let someone else know that you aren't filled with the Spirit of the Season. It's ok if holidays are a tough time for you; they’re tough for a lot of us. Take a chance and let someone know you need support. 

(Also make sure you keep your appointment with your therapist).

When to say, "that's not helpful"

The people who love us are (generally) well meaning. They want us to feel well, as a rule, and they often have a good idea of what that looks like. Or, they think they have a good idea. Often when you’re grieving, someone who loves you wants to help you by telling you what they think is a great idea. For instance, “[your loved one] would want you to be happy/live your life/not dwell on the past.” Or, “it’s been six months/a year/so long, it’s time to move on with your life.” They make these pronouncements as if they’ll magically snap you out of your grief and back into the world.

I don’t think I need to tell you, that’s not how grief works.

What I do need to tell you is this: it is ok to tell someone they aren’t helping. You don’t have to be unkind or snappish or rude. You can, however, set a boundary and tell them the truth: “that’s not helpful.”

In a previous post about boundaries, I noted that it can be hard to say something we know the other person doesn’t want to hear. People don’t like to be criticized, especially when they’re sure they’re right. That doesn’t mean that your emotional needs have to go ignored in service of not making someone briefly uncomfortable. In fact, someone who loves you and wants you to be well should be able to hear you tell them “that’s not helpful” without losing their shit about it.

It doesn’t matter how long it’s been since your bereavement or what the deceased would or would not say about how you’re handling it. What matters is that you’re getting real, actual support from the people around you. Sometimes that means telling them what you need–and what you don’t.

Your therapist believes in you

At our lowest moments, it’s hard to believe we will ever feel better. This is especially true when we get hit by a giant wave of grief. Long-time readers of this blog will remember the ocean metaphor: your grief is like ocean waves. You can be standing at the edge of the ocean for a long time with only little waves at your feet and then suddenly a major one comes and knocks you over. You didn’t see it coming so it knocks you to the ground with its force, or swallows you up. Temporarily. The ocean is not always giant, knock-down waves, right? Likewise, your grief will not always swallow you with its magnitude.

That’s easy to forget though, especially when you’re experiencing a big wave. This is where your therapist really comes in handy, especially if you’ve been seeing each other for awhile. You may not remember being here before, but I do. I also remember that you didn’t stay here forever. I remember that we got through the last wave and I believe we’ll get through the next one, even if you don’t.

Hope is hard to reach for when you’re struggling. But it’s also why I’m still a therapist. I really do believe that people can get better, that things will not always feel so incredibly difficult. The great thing about therapy is, you’re not alone, especially in those very bad times. We’ve been here before; we’ll find the way out again, together.

When grief is bittersweet

I took my daughters on a walk in the woods the other day and happened upon some birds taking a bath in a stream. My very first thought was, “I have to call Mom.” Almost simultaneously, I remembered that I can’t call her; she’s been dead for more than seven years.

But she popped into my head in that moment because she used to tell this story about me waiting next to my grandparents’ birdbath to see the birds. There’s even a picture to commemorate the story: three year old me in a pink winter coat, staring determinedly at the (very empty) birdbath. My mom told me how they tried to convince me that I was too close and the birds wouldn’t come but I waited and waited anyway. She loved telling that story. So when I came upon those robins bathing in the stream while I walked with my own children, I was seized with the desire to call my mother to tell her, I finally managed to catch the birds in the act.

It was sad, obviously, to realize I couldn’t actually call her. But what a lovely moment, to forget for just a split second—to have her be so alive to me still.

This is what I mean when I describe grief as bittersweet. The long, winding road of bereavement is filled with these moments: listening to a song that reminds you of your person; finding their handwriting in an old card; hearing a story you’d forgotten or never known about them. It’s sad, of course, but it’s lovely too, that the person you lost is still with you.

Grief isn’t all sharp edges and painful black holes—though those are part of it. It can also be a gift. Let it be. Let your heart feel full, even if it hurts. Find the sweetness in your grief.

How to talk to someone who is grieving

The prevailing reaction from people when I tell them what I do for a living is, “ugh, how do you do that?” Which, I get: listening to people talk about their grief all day sounds like it would be depressing. It certainly can be at times. But it’s also an honor to hear people’s love stories, which is what grief pretty much amounts to: ongoing love for someone who has left us.

That being said, I realize not everyone feels the same comfort when talking about death, grief, and loss. So if you aren’t a grief therapist, what on earth are you supposed to say to someone who is grieving?

First, let me release you from the idea that you are capable of curing someone else’s grief. You are not. Grief does not have a cure, nor does it have an expiration date. This is not to say you should throw up your hands in despair and ignore someone else’s grief entirely. Rather, I want you to let go of the idea that you are responsible for fixing someone’s grief by knowing the exact right words to use on them. There are no exact right words.

There are, however, some less right words. By this, I mostly mean stay away from cliches like “she’s in a better place” or “it’ll be ok.” I know those phrases are tempting to use; they’ve become cliche for a reason after all. But that doesn’t mean they’re particularly helpful. You may sincerely believe in your heart that someone is “in a better place” but you don’t have to say that out loud to the bereaved. Likewise, you don’t have to say that “everything is going to be ok” or that “they wouldn’t want you to be sad.” Again, those things may be true but they aren’t useful to someone who is grieving a loss.

What is useful for grievers is to be truly heard. This means listening without trying to come up with an answer. You aren’t fully listening if part of your brain is working on a response. There’s also no rush to reply immediately with a profound and heartfelt speech. “That sounds so hard,” is enough. Or, “I wish you didn’t have to go through this.” Both of those statements convey that you hear what the bereaved is saying and that you aren’t going to try to convince them of anything. You’re just going to let them be sad. And if they’ve said something that you really don’t know how to respond to, admit that! “I don’t know what to say” or “I don’t know how to help” are both completely reasonable responses to someone’s grief. Sometimes there are no words.

That doesn’t mean we are powerless to help. When someone is grieving, even if you can’t think of the right thing to say, you can sit beside them and help shoulder their burden for a little while. That, I think, is far better than talking.