Comparative Grief

When most people hear the term grief, they assume there has been a literal, physical death; and, usually, their compassion valves switch on and they immediately offer condolences and support.  What is interesting is how people tend to have considerably less compassion when the death is metaphorical instead.  

Think about the times you, or someone you know, came to the end of a long-term, romantic relationship.  If you are anything like me, the person you love is your best friend as well, so when that ends, there is a double whammy.  I remember hearing some sort of explanation for romantic grief on a television show: the amount of time permissible to grieve is directly proportionate to the length of time one was in said relationship by a third or some such.  As if grief works like an algebra equation.  Don’t get me wrong, if that is a personal mantra for you and it works for you, brilliant!  It is the application to others, and judging them according to that personal mantra, that drives me bananas.

I also find it curious that people, and I am guilty of this myself, tend to put more weight on the dissolution of a marriage than the ending of a long-term relationship.  (Clarification: when I think long-term, I think 2 years or more; I am sure that is different for everyone.)  While I have never been through a divorce, I have struggled through the ending of an 8 year relationship.  No, there were no legal waters to navigate.  Yes, I understand that legal matters can become incredibly nasty.  However, I still had to face family gatherings alone, to feel the fresh cut of the knife every time an acquaintance would ask about us, to face shared spots alone, to feel the pain anew every time a special song evoked the innumerable memories.  

There is also the great unspoken grief: fading or losing friendships.  As we grow and change, which I hope is a never-ending process, sometimes the people in our lives no longer fit.  I think it is natural for some friendships to fade because commonalities dissipate or belief systems change and are no longer compatible.  Sometimes, the feelings are mutually recognized; sometimes, they are not.  The surprising fact: it is rare for friends to have “the talk” like those ending a romantic relationship would.  I have been both the one to pull away and the one from whom friends have withdrawn.  I don’t feel good about either, and as awkward as those “talks” may have been, the closure they would have provided would have been worth it.  

Confession: I do not talk much about these things to my friends.  I have had both good and bad experiences when I have tried to talk about it.  One friend told me it’s on me to figure out how to feel better; another friend just about flicked me in the forehead for not going to her sooner.  My reticence comes more from my own self-judgment more so than my fear of others’.  I judge myself as being weak or ridiculous for perseverating on hurt and pain. Before some of you start banging your heads on the keyboard, I do see the fallacious logic of this.  I mean, come on.  Anyone who knows me knows I do my best to listen to people without judging them.  Why do I do it to myself?  Or even worry for a millisecond about someone judging me?  

I had a conversation with a friend last night who is struggling with grief.  If one were following the Kubler-Ross model of grief, this friend is experiencing anger, bargaining, and depression all at the same time.  Fun times, right?  But in speaking with him, I realized something: it is easy to dismiss someone else’s pain because you think it’s not as bad as, say, a literal death, or a terminal disease, or losing one’s home, or global genocides.  He and I both spoke of the wonderfully vicious cycle of beating ourselves up for feeling sad and angry when there are much worse things in the world, which everyone knows makes the initial pain and hurt feel so much better, right?  

Sometimes, we treat others’ pain as insignificant in comparison to - fill in the blank.  That judgment may never be vocalized, but our thoughts influence what we put into the world in even the smallest of ways.  I hope, I pray, that I remember that what may feel like a catastrophe to me might seem like a gnat to someone else.  I pray that I remember a walk in the park for me might be someone else’s cataclysm.  And may what I put into the world uplift rather than judge.