for the record, ‘not feeling anything’ is a valid and not unusual response to trauma or grief
so if you feel empty and devoid of feeling, it’s not because you’re a cold and uncaring person.
Sometimes, not feeling anything is the only way you can cope.
Be prepared for a delayed reaction, too. It’s very common to be totally calm during a crisis, and then days or weeks (or years) later suddenly get hit with a tidal wave of “HOLY SHIT THAT HAPPENED.”
Sometimes your mind waits until it feels safe to start processing things emotionally. It’s a powerful survival strategy, but it can really blindside you, because just as you start to feel like things are okay, you’re overwhelmed by the realization of how not-okay things were before.
This may not happen, and that’s okay too. But it’s something to watch out for when your initial reaction is numbness.
It’s also okay to have seemingly inconsistent reactions sometimes, or reactions that seem contrary, especially if you’re exhausted or in shock. Be open to how you feel, and accept it.
It is also okay if you are fine and calm for years afterward and then one single thing sets you off but not for long and then you are fine again until who knows what else might make you feel like that again.
Grief is a weird thing and everyone feels it differently.
Tag: grief
I got pregnant three years ago. I was 22, it was a brand-new relationship, but I was adamant that I was having a baby. I’ve always taken motherhood very seriously. I was abused — the product of people who shouldn’t have had kids — then adopted. I felt so strongly that this was the most important job of my life.
I wasn’t at risk of genetic defects, so during the anatomy scan it didn’t even occur to me that they were looking for abnormalities. Me, my boyfriend, and my parents all went to the appointment, and when they said I was having a girl, my mom jumped up and down hollering as if she were at a football game. My boyfriend cried.
I was home alone when I got a call from the genetic specialist who told me that the tests were positive for trisomy 13. I thought that was Down syndrome and thought, Okay, I can do that. But then she started apologizing: “I’m so sorry, these babies usually miscarry. It’s a miracle she’s made it this far.” I said I didn’t understand, and she explained that my baby could pass any day, be still-born, or die soon after. I Googled “trisomy 13” and saw horrific pictures of babies without noses or mouths. I sat there and sobbed while I held my belly apologizing to her over and over and over again. I called my mom and said, “My baby’s going to die. My baby’s going to die.”
The doctor cleared her schedule and saw me later that day. She said: “You need to make a decision. You’re already 23 weeks and the state of Ohio has restrictions that impact your options.” She explained I could terminate or carry the pregnancy to its extent. At the time, 24 weeks was the cutoff for abortion in Ohio or else you had to travel to another state. [In December 2016, Republican governor John Kasich signed a law that reduced this cutoff to 20 weeks.] We only had days to decide, and even then there were waiting lists and the expense was horrendous. I had never felt so alone.
The counselor said my baby wasn’t in pain and there was no risk to either of our lives if we continued the pregnancy. I thought, Let’s try to make some memories while we can. I really enjoyed being pregnant. I loved having this purpose, and I thought as long as she’s not suffering, I think that her being here with us right now is the best we can do. And so … we tried.
At 29 weeks, my ankles and legs got extremely swollen. I was disassociating and became lightheaded, so I left work. I started cramping and ended up in the hospital. There were so many tests, which ultimately concluded that this was an emergency situation. [Jessica was at risk of having a seizure, and potentially dying, if labor wasn’t induced.] I wasn’t thinking, I’m terminating this pregnancy in order to save my life, but that’s what my paperwork said.
The doctor was very clear. He said, “You need to decide whether you want to induce now or come back in a week and get your blood pressure checked again — and I will induce you then.” I lived 45 minutes away from any hospital, on a farm without neighbors. It was a bitterly cold January. He was afraid I’d have a seizure and not get to them in time. That worried me, too.
But I knew that if I was induced, there was no chance my daughter would survive. Even if I carried her to term, her survival rate was very low, less than 5 percent. Another decision I had to make was telling the doctors that I did not want them to resuscitate the baby.
I was in labor for 32 hours.
I declined to have her monitored during labor because I didn’t want to sit there listening to her pass away. So they’d periodically come in and quietly listen for a heartbeat. The last time, at 1 a.m., they couldn’t hear it. I made them bring my family back into the room, and about a half an hour later it was time. She was born after three pushes, and at just two and a half pounds. Her heart was still beating, but she didn’t cry or breathe or make any sort of sound. There was mention of oxygen, but I said, “Please, just let her go.” They put her on my chest, and my boyfriend came and cut the cord.
She stayed alive for two and a half hours. They called it when her heart stopped.
When I made the decision to “voluntarily” induce, I felt like I was picking myself over my child. I wouldn’t wish that on the most evil person on Earth. A funeral director arrived with a huge white cloth. He said, “I have to cover her face so people don’t know when I’m walking down the hall [with such a small body].” I handed her over, and that was the last time that I saw her. I didn’t want a casket on display at the funeral; that tiny box would have been way too much. I collected her ashes a week later.
Many people don’t understand why this experience reinforced my pro-choice beliefs. Now more than ever, I firmly believe: No conditions. No restrictions. I can’t imagine being in that situation and being denied the dignity of making a choice. That little bit of control was so empowering. Nobody just wakes up after being pregnant for over 20 weeks and says, “I don’t want to do this anymore.”
When Trump said those things about late-term abortion during the debate, I was so angry. What must the rest of the world think of us? I have friends in the U.K. and Canada saying, “What the hell? You can have 30 guns but you can’t have a dignified, comfortable abortion?”
And while we’re getting abortions and making painful decisions about our bodies, Trump is fucking tweeting.
Jessica, who had an abortion after 24 weeks, rural Ohio, What Abortion Looks Like In America Right Now (via gorandomshesaid)
Our culture has celebrities in place of myths, and we have grief twitter instead of byzantine lore about the journey to the underworld and the proper ways of burial. When celebrities die and we mourn them in a massively public way, this is a safe way to practice mourning for our parents and our partners and our friends, to try to force ourselves to make the unthinkable familiar.
The generational quality of this grief comes from the fact that, as the celebrities with whom we grew up die, it signals that we are at the age where people are dying, and we look ahead to the inevitable disasters, the wave that grows larger on the horizon. If our public grief is a performance, it’s a performance in the way that a disaster drill is a performance.
Our grief at losing an icon who meant a great deal to us is a real grief but a bearable one. But that bearable grief is a test-drive for future unbearable ones. We practice together in the hope that we can be prepared, so that the idea of loss does not seem so alien.
Complaints about the inappropriate nature of grief on social media – that it’s a circle-jerk, a joiner’s club, an obligated performance – are as defining a part of these mournings as the remembrances themselves. But to call this grief a performance is to miss the point – it’s not a performance, it’s a rehearsal. It seems right to me that grief be public, and messy, and inconvenient, that it make everyone in its path uncomfortable.
Small amounts of discomfort, after all, increase our tolerance for large amounts of pain. Mourning celebrities who mattered to us is a way to remind ourselves that no one is spared, not even those who seemed immortal, larger than a human being with petty little organs doing their pedestrian little jobs inside their skin. Speaking things aloud removes their terror, dulls the power of their unfamiliarity. We speak this over and over to try to come to terms with something that cannot possibly be made familiar.
Steel Phoenix Studios 