It's not rocket science that men and women experience grief differently. Along with that experience is also the understanding that grief itself is a very individual process. None of us grieve the same way, and none of us communicate the same way. Life puts us in situations together, but experience puts us through circumstances alone.
On the surface, it would seem that Tim and I both experienced the same loss. Underneath, our losses were quite different, and sadly, in all those years of just getting through, we were so buried in our own grief experiences that it was too easy to dismiss the grief experiences of the other person.
I remember Tim expressing that adding Joie to our family created a loss for our children of their own former sibling relationships. Before Joie came into our family, Nate, Megan, and Jeran were close. After Joie came into our family, the boys went through the loss of their sister. Megan was still there, but now she had a sister. Megan felt the loss too. She felt pressure to be nice to Joie, and sacrificed her relationship with her brothers, who she missed. Then she'd get mad at Joie... And at Nate and Jeran... And Nate and Jeran were mad at Joie... And at Megan...
Tim also expressed grief over the loss of our family as we knew it. For nine years we had been a family of five, and in less than a week, following indescribable loss, we became a family of six. Of course we were happy that Joie was still with us, but when Tim would express grief over the loss of our family as we had known it, I got upset because I felt like that burden was too much to put on Joie. I dismissed his grief as "wrong," because "She doesn't have a choice. She didn't ask to lose her family and insert herself in our family."
At the same time, I was grieving the loss of my baby sister, and was overwhelmed with the loss Joie and our children were facing, along with the adjustments we were all making as we tried to become a family. Some days it felt like every ounce of emotional energy was spent getting everyone else through the day, and I had nothing left for me. Tim lived this every day as well, but not in the same way, and there was something in me that said he was so wrapped up in the logistics of taking care of the estate and horses, and details I hadn't even thought of that I couldn't burden him with my grief.
Still, he knew how difficult this was for me. Then five months after the accident, I said I wanted to go with my sisters to see the police report. I wanted to know more than we knew, and I didn't care what I was about to find out. I just needed to know. Tim response: "No. I won't let you go."
We do not have one of those relationships where we ask permission. In fact, that is the only time I think I've ever heard either one of us forbid the other from doing something. I remember walking away from him saying, "I'm not asking permission."
He followed me downstairs where I was changing laundry. I don't remember the whole conversation after that, but I do remember Tim saying, "I can't have you fall apart."
Part of me loved that I was needed, and in a vulnerable, sweet way Tim was saying he relied on me to be me. At the same time (who knows why) under the self-imposed pressure we were already both feeling to get it right, those words burned into my brain and didn't leave. No matter what, I wouldn't fall apart. I'd be fine.
Viewing the police report actually went well. What we had imagined was far worse than anything that was actually in the report. At the same time, I know from that point on, I didn't try much to share my grief with Tim. In my mind, I thought I'd heal, and he'd heal and we'd get back to being who we were before.
Meanwhile, if Tim would bring up concerns that we weren't sharing things with each other, I would, in my overwhelmed state, dismiss his concerns. I couldn't handle one more thing.
I paint a pretty tense and difficult picture of our relationship during that time. In reality, quite the opposite was true. We were close in a lot of ways, and even though we weren't understanding each other's grief, we were moving through this whole experience together, and watching our family collectively and individually heal from tragedy. Spiritually, emotionally, and physically our whole family grew closer.
...And farther apart in other ways. It seems like for a both Tim and I, if things didn't fit in the happy, healing box, neither of us wanted to hear about it.
...And as I've said before, it's what we weren't sharing that became the issue. This year as Tim started traveling, we started into the same patterns. I wouldn't burden him with my stress. He was too exhausted. He wouldn't burden me with his stress. I had enough on my plate. The end result: No outlet... Actually, that's not true. Stress finds it's own outlet, eventually...sometimes in not so healthy ways, which of course, just added to the stress.
At the same time, some extended family problems and conflicts added to the tension. What had been my support system felt like it was crumbling.
So Tim and I find ourselves turning to each other, and hearing stories about our experiences in all of this we haven't shared before. I heard for the first time the other day about his friend at work who would walk up to Tim when they were on shift together and say, "Man, you look like I felt a few years ago." This man was raising his grand daughter, and recovering from the double suicide loss of his son and daughter-in-law. Tim found a friend in him, and was able to talk.
The other day someone in the family had asked about a picture from the funeral, and I pulled them up on my computer. There, in front of me, were all the images of loss, and the feelings along with it, just as real as the day it happened. My old self would have just grieved alone. Instead I asked Tim if he had time to look through the pictures with me. We talked for several hours about what we remembered and experienced.
And guess what? During times when we both felt alone, we were also able to identify ways we were there with each other and for each other.
After all is said and done, I still sort of wish there was a reset button. Wouldn't that be great? But really, if we had known then that our individual response to grief would lead to relationship stress now, what would we have done differently? To be honest, what could we have done differently? It's just one more in a long list of things we have no control over in this process. (And as long as there is a reset button, we all know the real reset point would be Joie not losing her family...just saying.) Ultimately, I guess as long as we're here, and as long as the end result of relationship distance is relationship healing, that's a good thing...
Sort of...
(Wishing for that reset button again...)
Ultimately, none of us would choose this, but if we could unchoose it (spell checker is saying that isn't a word, but I don't care), that would also mean unchoosing the life we're living now and the people we're becoming because of having to dig down deep to discover healing. None of us would do that. (Ok--maybe sometimes.)
My relationship analogy the other day as Tim and I were talking: Remember when Megan was 4 or 5 and playing soccer? We knew she was awesome--a gifted athlete, even back then. But what if she stayed that same 4-5 year old soccer player? What if she was never coached, and never improved? It wouldn't matter how gifted she was, she wouldn't be playing soccer in a grown-up kid game.
...Same with relationships. Good relationships grow. They have to, or we'd all keep playing as pre-schoolers.
So here's to growth... And digging down deep... In a story that is never over, because as soon as it seems like it's over there's just one more layer...
Sort of like this:
(Image credit: goodtherapy.org)
