When the nothing feels like everything

How do you grieve the support you've lost?

This is a sappy one y’all. And a deeply personal one.

I know. I’ve left you for a month and I’m coming back with a heavy newsletter! And it’s a blast from the (recent) past, because I wrote this while on my little break!

Saw this on whatsyourgrief.com and honestly I feel this so deeply!

I’m writing this about 2 weeks after finding out a guy I was seeing earlier last year is in a new relationship with someone he met while we were together. I know when it rains it pours. Most of, if not all of us, know that kind of sting. Especially when you’re the one who didn’t end the relationship you were in with them (hi, I am “the one”). No one likes being the one who didn’t get a chance to “be happy” first by being the first one in a new relationship. And no one likes feeling like they were lied to by someone they trusted.

Now in the pre-grief era this would have absolutely still stung. Pre-grief Melinda would still have been hurt and would have drowned her feelings in spin classes and ice cream (which post-grief Melinda is doing, some things don’t change). But in the post-grief era, pain and hurt dig a bit deeper as I’ve talked about before.

The sting of rejection is one thing. But the absolute gut punch of not being able to be comforted by my dad is another. And that has become the biggest part of me processing this entire situation.

Many of us know the soft landing that our person gave us when they were alive. We know how their hugs feel, how their hands feel when they reach for our hand across the table to give a squeeze. We know the feelings of safety and security as we cry, vent, and break in front of them. It doesn’t matter how big or relatively small the hurt we could be going through, we know they anchor us when we feel lost. They give us strength when we feel we have none. They give us the support we need to try and pick up the pieces and move forward.

In my case, I know exactly what my dad would say and do. Which I almost think makes it harder for me. I would go over to his house and tell him “daddy, a boy didn’t like me, he picked someone else” shrinking back into that little girl who had a crush on Jeremy in the 5th grade and Jeremy definitely did not know I existed (your loss Jeremy! 5th grade Melinda was AMAZING!).

He would say “and that boy is stupid, he just made the biggest mistake of his life which believe me he will regret if he doesn’t already, now come in and I’ll make you something to eat.” And then he’d hug me, tell me I’m smart and beautiful and that he loves me. And I would feel a little bit lighter than I did just a few minutes before.

Sometimes knowing exactly how our people would comfort and care for us makes the grief feel even sharper. It takes the knife in your heart and twists it even more. Because you can understand exactly what you have lost. That knowing feels like the pinnacle of grief.

We obviously cannot get back what we have lost, but I do believe we can still find a way to connect to our people in times when we need a helping hand, or a warm hug, or just an ear to listen to. I recently discovered Postal Service for the Dead, an organization that collects letters grievers write to their loved ones. You can send them a letter you have written to your person and you have choices on whether you want one of their staff to read it or to keep it private. The letters are then archived into a collection of letter from other folks who also wrote to their person.

I love the idea of being able to tell my dad in writing that a boy didn’t like me and to still be able to process my heartbreak with him, even though he is not here on this Earth. It makes it feel like I’m able to say the words to him that I wanted him to hear. And while I can’t get the hug or the meal he would have made for me, I can still include him in this way. And I can still close my eyes and draw strength from the support I know he would send me.

I encourage you to look into Postal Service for the Dead if it feels supportive for you!

Big hugs until next time,

Melinda