The Intersectional World of Grief and Depression

When I started to blog three and a half years ago, I wanted a forum for articulating grief outside the typical social media format and away from the appearance of pandering for sympathetic responses. I wanted to talk about the reality of what grief is like for me, to not create a façade or portray grief as overly gracious in any way. In some ways, I think I have allowed the blog to be a place where I can express an authentic viewpoint. In other ways I have failed to really own what the experience has been like, for fear of judgment or sympathy.

Vulnerability can be a struggle for me, and grief has brought out some of the worst, inauthentic pieces in me when it comes to owning up to said vulnerability. Especially when it comes to depression.

One of the things I clung to in the days after Chris died was running. It was something we shared and it has always been a way for me to process what I am thinking and feeling. Running is a safe space for me—metaphorically I have been trying to run ahead of my grief, away from the depression and confusion.

I’ve been clawing at ways to rebuild my life since January 7^th, 2014. Literally and figuratively running towards goals that I have hoped would lead me toward healing. But the depression remains, and sometimes compounds. It’s lonely, having a dug a hole, not realizing I have just been running in place, wearing out the ground underneath me.

What is challenging is that the depression is a complicated matter. It’s not just one hole really, it’s a series of wormholes that are interconnected and entangled with loss.

For me, a starting point in the “self-imposed pity party” is comparison. Between my expectations and my reality, as well as benchmarking myself against the world. As Brene Brown wisely states: “Comparison kills creativity and joy.” That absence of joy and creativity feel like depression.

Intellectually, I am acutely aware that I am not alone in feeling like my life is far from what I hoped it could be. Which is why I think it’s important to own this less than perfect part of my life. Sometimes living in a world of Instagram-filtered reality and epic Facebook updates leaves me feeling like a failure. Comparing other people’s best moments to my everyday reality creates a mental world where I am living less of a life.

In many ways reality matches what my depressed thinking says—I am living less of a life. Where most 30 somethings I know are starting or growing families and/or establishing themselves in careers, I’ve been licking my wounds. Not only am I grieving the loss of Chris, I am grieving the loss of the family we will never have. I have lost out on the opportunity to have a family of my own—and quite possibly will never find another spouse. And that is a painful reality I have to face.

I‘ve also struggled to adequately invest time in new friendships because grief has taken up more energy that my introverted self has time to spare. The expense of grief has meant losing pieces of myself that feel fun and worthwhile to be around in the first place. I am self aware enough to know I am difficult to understand, and that often my liabilities precede my assets in friendships. I can come across as cold, or condescending without intending to do so. Trying to find that goofy, carefree part of myself that feels likable in the first place has been a self-imposed hurdle. Instead of cultivating community, I’ve been isolating to heal. Now that I am starting to move outside my protective shell, it’s a pretty lonely place and I am responsible for that loneliness.

As much as I take joy in seeing my friends thrive in life, it can be hard to be the one left behind. Even among the amazing women I have walked this widow journey with, I am behind in my healing. I know that trying to circumnavigate my depression has played a role in falling behind. I also know that life is far from fair, what I want out of life doesn’t really matter. These are the cards I have been dealt and my only choice is to play them as best I can.

I’ve tried reading books to gain insight and self-awareness, to challenge my attitude and growth process. Books like Rising Strong, Wild, and The Subtle Art of Not Giving a Fuck, have been meaningful in encouraging me to live a more authentic, value centered life. Other books have not meshed well with my sense of perfectionism—reading a book on mindfulness left me feeling like a raging failure for not being able to lay aside the anxious and depressive voices. The irony is not lost on me. Where Chris used to temper my perfectionism, I have tried to find ways to tell myself “enough is enough” in this grieving process. When I am not able to calm that voice, depression rears it’s ugly head.

Beyond the scope of my self-indulgent sorrows, I am torn apart by all the hatred, injustice, and violence I see in our world. The last year, in particular, has brought out a strong sense of powerlessness in me. I know I am not alone in this feeling either. I desperately wish to put good things into this world, like so many other people I know. Through depression’s filter, it feels like those efforts matter very little. Like salmon losing the fight to a much stronger current. It leaves a bitter taste in my mouth as I question what exactly people are losing their lives over. What are we even fighting for? What gives us the right to hurt each other?

I’ve tried my best to not place responsibility on others for managing my depression or grief. I imagine my distance or silence at times have not been constructive. There are times where I just don’t know what to say or do, and I know no one else can change that for me. I once had a counselor (years ago) challenge me on pushing others away. It’s what I do to keep things safe. Like many others who deal with depression, I often isolate to not be a burden on others. (Even though I would challenge clients on using this technique.) I am deeply ashamed of my depression because it makes me less than perfect. And I fear that less than perfect makes me less than worthwhile. By owning this vulnerability, I hope that others can relate (not pity) and feel less lonely through their struggles.

None of us has it easy. Right now my “not easy” feels very lonely and sad. It’s a place where I really miss having a teammate. I feel very fortunate for the few years that Chris and I had together. I used to think that marrying such a funny, intelligent, kind person meant that maybe I wasn’t so terrible either. In the least year, I have questioned how true that story is. I feel selfish and silly for being depressed at all. And I also feel like a delusional failure for not getting this grieving thing right (even when I know there is not a right way). Depression is fundamentally a place that doubts all good.

One of the hardest things that I have learned about grief has come from understanding depression. It’s not about just one emotion, it’s about being so overwhelmed by emotion that your system is functionally depressed by the intensity of those feelings. As much as grief is an echo of loving and missing someone truly special, the sad, angry, lonely pieces of me turn grief into depression. My depressed self is insecure and constantly doubts who I am or how I’m doing. It’s not a version of myself that I think Chris would be proud of, and that is difficult to digest.

The silver lining is that depression doesn’t stop me.  I think that is an important distinction. I’ve been able to hide behind school, work, home improvement projects, and running as ways of distracting myself. Sometimes those distractions are necessary—the grief and sadness will subside in due course. I still shower, and take Schrodie for walks. I clean my house, and organize things. I feel purposeful in the work I do. I am trying to be better about making social plans.

I’m trying to build a future for myself, and working on having patience with the process. Patience is not my strength. Not moving quickly enough, both on a race course and in life, contribute to feeling depressed. I think part of me hoped that I would somehow have a qualifying time when it came to grieving—that’s just not the case.

Again, my hope with this post is create a conversation around reality—to own how perfectionism hinders my life and how I’ve been holding myself back in the process. I can only imagine the extent to which I am not alone in this battle. Maybe owning up to it helps someone else feel a little less lonely too.

Crazy

The inglorious world of being a widow... where trying to move forward is messy and confusing. Dating and grief are a very odd combination.

I recently made the mistake of picking up a book called “Why Men Love Bitchs.” I was curious, to say the least. Curiosity quickly gave way to shame and a sense of disgust. If being a “bitch” is the game, I am not sure I want to play. Instead of identifying a sense of empowerment, I felt like too much of the wrong things, and not enough of the good. This trope is a painful one for me. Too tall, too smart, too sad. Not enough whimsy.

I think most of us learn our greatest lessons painfully, by experience. Before I met Chris, I learned a valuable lesson in dating from someone who treated me poorly and left me feeling miserable. I promised myself I would never date someone who treated me like an accommodation. Tolerable but not enough.

One of my more vulnerable qualities in dating is that I am too trusting—I naively believe that people say what they mean. Why would anyone possibly wish to swindle me with embellishments? For someone who is reasonably intelligent, I can be pretty stupid at times. I have had several men dupe me, telling me they think communication is really important to a relationship and then follow up with aloofness and passive-aggressive silent treatment. They say they don't want drama, then prove that it's what they thrive upon.

With Chris, I was lucky. He was sincere, his words matched his efforts. Falling in love was a reckless whirlwind. Was I annoying and probably too needy at times, absolutely. But I was also kind and genuine, I treated him with respect. Chris showed me the same. We had our disagreements. I did not have to agree with Chris all the time or constantly appease his ego—he actually enjoyed pushing my buttons. I think he loved me for my passion and conviction. I did not have to be someone else to be valued. I didn’t have to tamp down my kindness or affection, hold back on my opinions or concerns, to be appreciated. I had my boundaries but I did not feel a need to hold myself back either.

On a fundamental level, I believe “Why Men Love Bitchs” is trying to highlight the importance of having solid boundaries. Not every guy is a good guy you can recklessly fall for. To a certain extent, it encourages women to set limits and not over-accommodate. Admirable points.

What I find disturbing about the book, and dating culture in general, is that it assigns women the responsibility of being “perfect” in order to get the guy. Be cool. Don’t talk about your bad days. Don’t overtly challenge your partner lest his ego should crumble. Be subtle in order to get your way. If you are generous, don’t be… he’ll come to expect it. Set the tone early by holding back who you are. Basically: do not have needs because it is unacceptable for a man to experience your humanity. I think this notion is degrading to both men and women.

The book also perpetuates an impossible standard for women: don’t be needy, but show him he is needed. In others words, be able to fulfill your own emotional needs, but don’t be self-sufficient enough to take out the trash, change a flat tire, or remove a spider from your home. Be unable to sustain yourself in practical ways, but practice self-efficacy. Someone needs to brush up on Maslow’s Hierarchy.

I believe we teach people how to treat us—both in action and through feedback. Show compassion if you wish to receive it. If something is not working, the easiest course is to say it. Ask for what matters. Or so I thought. Apparently open communication is needy. It’s far better to be manipulative, indirectly state what you want so the other person thinks it’s his/her idea. Or, if you are a man, you get to be passive-aggressive, let the frustration build to boiling temperature and then blame your partner for not being able to read your mind or appropriately understand your avoidant behavior. And then call her crazy for feeling confused and angry.

Frankly, It’s privileged bull shit. I’ve watched men who complain about the “everyone gets a trophy” mentality turn into entitled, offended whiners who unravel when challenged—It’s all fun and games until it isn’t their way.

I fear we are too culturally complicit in saying that relationships should work according to a man’s game only-- however dysfunctional that game may be. According to the book, it’s in a man’s nature to be competitive, once he feels he has a woman, he will subsequently become disinterested. And that becomes the woman’s problem.  It is the woman’s responsibility to remain a constant enigma and keep him captivated. (Sounds a little like the logic that says it’s a woman’s responsibility to not get herself raped?)

What happened to a sense of mutual responsibility? Women are told to take a page from the man’s playbook in order to gain a successful relationship: be aloof, make it a competition, keep him guessing. Perhaps I am missing the part where secrecy and scarcity build intimacy and vulnerability? And yet, dominant cultural guidelines tell men that vulnerability is unacceptable, emasculating. How demeaning. I watch how that cultural myth has literally broken men in my office.

I think there is strength in how women relate to one another. We do not build friendships through competition and aloofness, we build lasting connection through compassion and giving. We’ve been given the privilege of being able to express emotion to a greater extent than our male partners. But we’ve also been taught that nurturing means taking on the lion’s share of responsibility. Research in human development suggests that women develop both cognitively and ethically within the context of relationships (see Gilligan, Belenky, et al). While these theories do not encapsulate every woman per se, they highlight the powerful context of community. Our goodness/morality are often defined in terms of our relationships and service to others.

So where is the middle ground? Women are supposed to unlearn a lifetime of acculturation to earn the heart of a man by accommodating patriarchal mores? Am I hallucinating to think that perhaps both parties have something to gain from seeking a happy medium? And that maybe femininity offers some valuable insight into connected, meaningful relationships? (I realize I am speaking in vastly heteronormative terms right now. This is the experience I know.)

What happened to the idea that two people with unique perspectives and talents create a team? Where the real magic is being able to meet a challenge and stand together at the end of it. Like putting together IKEA furniture. Or having that first vulnerable disagreement. I feel like the courage to really engage is lacking in the dating pool I am now encountering. It’s maddening.

In my confusion, I read a book that turns out to be a manual in the many ways I am completely unworthy of finding a partner (in part because I carry this insane notion that being kind and nice is important to me). I am unworthy because I cook meals for people, and foolishly offer compassion because I am far from perfect and hope at some point to receive some grace myself.

At the end of the day, I am left confused. I feel like I am wrong to want to want a Chapter Two. 

Maybe that is greedy, or makes me selfish. Frankly, it is heartbreaking to always be the odd person out. To be the single rider at family functions, where everyone else has their little piece of a family.

It would be nice to rest in the comfort of knowing that if I died in my sleep, someone would prevent Schrodie from starving (I worry about these things). It would be lovely to count on someone to walk Schrodie when I am too sick to stand up—because that is a very real part of being alone.

Maybe I am not “whole enough” for wanting a partnership—but there are ways that going it alone just doesn’t work. Can I do it? Sure. Being a military spouse guarantees ample alone time and independence. I’ve got that part nailed down. But all of it feels like so much less after having gained so much before.

I am probably wrong for feeling hurt and angry—I suppose it’s my own sense of entitlement that brings me down. I am choosy. I want the full package-- after Chris, how do I settle for less? But you don’t get the full package when you are damaged goods.

In the end, I’d rather be me and single. Lonely and painful as it might be. Even nice girls can be bitches when pushed too far. If that makes me crazy, I’ll take my straight jacket in a small, extra length in the sleeves.

(For the record, I realize I am writing in broad generalizations, there are plenty of good men in this world. Most of those men have already found love and are happily yoked to incredible woman.  What is hurtful is navigating a dating culture that encourages narcissism in men and inherently gaslights women in the process.)