hopeful and realistic grieving
It took me a good 15 minutes of sitting and staring at my computer screen before I started writing this post. I typically try to be a somewhat hopeful person. I definitely have a deep level of sarcasm that runs through my bones, but in general, I would say people would describe me as kind, helpful, accepting, forgiving, and easygoing.
NEGATIVE Messages
When I first started researching grief, I remember immediately being turned off by the overly negative messaging on social media and in some books about grief. People who were YEARS and YEARS out from losing their loved one were still crying daily, unable to function. In one particular Facebook group, a member mentioned that she had lost her 37 year old son TWENTY TWO years ago and still cried every day. And there she was, still in a social media grief group, complaining about her life.
It was the most fucking depressing thing I’ve ever read. “I will not spend the next 20 years of my life wallowing in misery,” I vowed to myself.
A typical comment from a grief group I’m in on Facebook.
toxic positivity
So I searched for more positive grief-related support, and I found it in droves. The problem was that I kept running into these toxically positive messages that didn’t resonate with me at all. Toxic positivity has been all the rage for a while — think, “Good Vibes Only!” “Just Keep Swimming!” or the entire “Girl Boss” culture. I don’t think these things are totally bad — I mean, I have a window sticker on my car that says “Be a Kind Human” and another that says “Go Where You Feel Most Alive,” so I’ve bought into the fake-it-till-you-make-it suburban mom trends too, y’all.
Oh, really? I guess I should just look on the bright side!
I’m just saying that when it comes to grief, many overly-positive messages make me want to hurl. If you come at me with, “Everything happens for a reason,” I’m going to want to know what your reason is for a 10 year-old beautiful child who’s never done anything but make people’s lives brighter to die in a horrible car accident.
Anything that starts with, “At least…” also makes me bristle. “At least she had a happy life.” “At least she died quickly.” “At least you still have other children.”
Perhaps. But… her life wasn’t supposed to be so short, and think about all of those milestones she will never reach. And… I didn’t get to say goodbye. And… which of YOUR children would you trade for the other? I’d like all three of mine, please.
Religious sentiments don’t help me, either, as I’m not religious. So while I have no problem if it makes you feel better to think that Libby is dancing in heaven, or that you’re going to see her again when you die, or that Jesus/God/Allah/Jehovah/Spirit called her home, or that she’s sending signs of her love to you… I’m happy for you. However, those things don’t bring me any comfort at all.
Thanks for the reminder, Instagram! 🤮
it’s just a glass
So I find myself in this middle ground. My glass isn’t half empty, or half full — it’s just a damn glass. My life just IS right now. Sometimes it’s awful, and sometimes it’s ok, and I have hope that someday it will be better, but I still cry so hard I can’t breathe, and most times I feel like I’m just existing in a no-man’s land. So I’m trying to pave a way forward through my grief that is both hopeful AND realistic.
I don’t want to spend the rest of my life miserable and missing out on good things, but I also know this hole in my heart will never feel completely healed. That’s the crux of grief — being able to live with the bad and still feel the good.
memories without her
The vacation I’m on right now is a perfect example of this dichotomy. I’m making memories with my family. We’ve been doing many fun activities — horseback riding, kayaking, taking bike rides, having family game nights, etc. I’ve loved all of these good things, and I’ve smiled and laughed while doing them. But EVERY SINGLE MOMENT I have missed my daughter. Her absence is clearly felt by everyone. Things are not even close to being the same without her, and so along with the smiles and laughter have been streams of tears and an aching heart.
The pain is there, but it’s not stopping me from doing the good things, too. One way I’ve learned to cope is by bringing Libby with me.
I don’t mean that in an existential way — I mean, I literally bring her ashes with me. We had her remains made into memorial stones, and we’ve been bringing her along on all of our adventures.
It’s not even a fragment of a replacement for her outgoing, positive, sunny, hilarious presence, but it’s something. An acknowledgement, maybe — “We are doing things without you but we will ALWAYS wish you were here.” It’s one small way I’ve learned to be both realistic about my pain and yet keep moving forward.
I’m still very much a work in progress, and will be for a long time. Helping people through this site and through the non-profit in Libby’s honor (LiveLikeLibby.org) gives me a purpose that I think she would be proud of. Researching and writing keeps me busy. Spending time with my family keeps me grounded and reminds me of why I need to keep going. Learning about grief keeps me growing. Visiting with friends keeps me from being too hard on myself and retreating into my introverted shell.
Breaking down reminds me that I’m human, and that my daughter was one in a million. ❤️
