On Grief & Feeling Hopeless
A personal account of an emotionally exhausting and disappointing few days.
I’m going to be honest with you for a moment. This was not the post I had planned for this week. This past weekend was rather difficult for me emotionally, and I felt that there might be some use in writing about it and sharing it with you all.
Sometimes I fear with this newsletter that I focus too much on what I’ve already accomplished — the parts of life that I feel like I’ve figured out and can share my thoughts on, not what I’m currently struggling with. I want to be as vulnerable and honest with you all as possible, because I know how damaging it can be when everyone online acts like they have it all together (when they really, really don’t). I know the difference between, for example, telling someone I’ve recovered from abusing alcohol, and telling someone I’m currently struggling with abusing alcohol. The responses are very different — one compassionate and proud, the other disgusted and shameful. We tend to only want to hear stories about struggle after the fact, when the person has already gone through something difficult and come out better on the other side. We have much less interest in hearing someone admit they’ve been struggling and don’t know what to do about it. Lately, I’ve been struggling. And I don’t know what to do about it. And that’s okay.
This past weekend, I went to my father’s house, my childhood home, to sift through dusty boxes in search of photo albums, photos, and other items of sentimental value. I planned to bring them back to my barely-a-one-bedroom apartment because I feared if I left them at my dad’s house, they would be thrown away during his move. I found my mothers wedding dress, stacks of her old checkbooks, cards she wrote to me on birthdays, get well soon cards I had made for her. I packed it all up without looking into it too much and brought it back to my apartment that night. Upon arriving home, I dug in. In these photo albums were pictures I had never seen before, of my mom in her 20s, graduating college, getting married, living in her first apartment, buying her first home. I saw photos of us together that I didn’t remember taking, where her face was more familiar to me, more like the person I remembered her as.
And I started to get frustrated. And selfish. And at some points, probably, insensitive. I was frustrated at the circumstances and often at things that were in no one’s control. I was frustrated that she didn’t go to the doctor sooner. I was frustrated that the doctors didn’t find it sooner. I was frustrated that the chemo, radiation, and surgery only made her sicker. I was frustrated that other people who were older and more frail survived cancer and she didn’t, at only 42 years old. I was frustrated that I had to be so young, that I couldn’t have had more years with her or that I could’ve at least been old enough to understand and process everything. I was frustrated at myself for not even knowing where to find her grave in the cemetery. I was frustrated with my father for not working harder to keep her memory alive. I was frustrated that I had to grow up so quickly and watch the remainder of my childhood years vanish. I was mostly frustrated that I’ll never know the full story of her life, how she felt after graduating, after getting engaged, after the birth of my brother and myself. If she ever felt lost, confused, and scared like I do. I had the idea (a foolish but comforting idea, I admit) that if she were still alive, she’d have the magic answer that would solve every problem I have right now and make my life whole, complete, and perfect.
After staying up until midnight crying over her death for the first time in years, I woke up the next morning just frustrated in general. For the past couple years, Adam and I have been going back and forth on a big decision that would completely change our lives. Every time we got close to moving forward with this plan, something would get in the way. Finally, a few weeks ago, we had ultimately decided that we were going to do it, because we’ve been thinking it over too long and and even though it’s scary, we know it will make us happy. On this same weekend, one crucial piece of our plan fell apart. We had so quickly and unceremoniously been denied the one piece of the puzzle we needed to begin this project. This rejection brought us back to square one, back to the possibility of it not happening, back to that same feeling that our dream will never work out. It felt like all of our future plans that we were so excited about would never come to fruition.
I felt like it shouldn’t be this difficult. I don’t want much out of this world, yet I feel like whenever I do want something, there’s always something else in the way. I hear about others achieving huge milestones, accomplishing their goals, finding happiness — and I’m just stuck. Stuck, and confused about who I am or what I want. Every possible avenue to change my circumstances seems impossible at the moment (for good reason). Stuck, and I wish I could talk to the one person who I feel like would know me better than anyone, even after all this time.
I know that I’m fortunate. I’m financially stable enough to (barely) afford an (overpriced) apartment, maintain my car, and pick up take-out when I don’t want to cook. I’m fortunate to even be able to consider options outside of working 2 or 3 jobs and just trying to hold everything together. I’ve always held the notion that sometimes, no matter how great we may have it or how much the future may hold for us, we need to allow ourselves to be frustrated, and angry, and sad, and selfish, and insensitive. We need to wallow in how terrible our life is and how the whole entire world is against us. We need a day (or two or three) to feel like woe is me, to over-eat ice cream, drink too much wine, and watch old movies. We can’t be positive, upbeat, and excited for the future 100% of the time. Hustle and productivity culture has made us think that we’re supposed to get bad news, put a smile on, and use it as fuel to keep pushing forward. Now, I’m not suggesting that any time something difficult happens in our lives, we should shut down forever. However, there’s importance and even beauty in allowing ourselves to feel upset, to feel hopeless, to feel like nothing ever works out in our favor (even when you know it does). We can’t girlboss our way out of feeling difficult emotions and facing rejection. Let’s stop pretending we can.
So, over these next few days, I’m giving myself that time to work through the grief and trauma that I was never taught to or given the space to process as a child. I’m allowing myself to feel frustrated and angry and stuck. I’m acknowledging that these feelings, even if they might seem silly or insignificant to someone else, feel important to me and that that’s normal. I’m giving myself that time, without judgement. If you need it, you should too.
Thanks for reading, and I’ll see you next week.