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The world feels heavy for me this week. Not because I’ve been caught up in tragedy or terminal illness, but because many of my friends have. Young people. People with families. People barely in middle age.
Then there’s the deep pain I feel for the family of the boy killed in Spain while vacationing with his buddies. They left the bar. He stayed. A simple enough decision that ended his life and forever altered his family’s.
And my heart breaks for all of them. The ones I know and the ones I don’t.
I know what it’s like to lose someone unexpectedly. My best friend took her own life at 45. In fact, I’m writing this on the anniversary of her death. She feels especially present to me right now. She chose not to come out of the winter and see the beauty of spring.
I also know what it’s like to lose someone to an incurable illness, where their own cells turn on them. I’ve watched the withering, the gasping for breath at the end, and marveled at how even a few days can make a difference.
And I’m consumed with sadness over the pain people are feeling now and for what’s ahead of them. I think about the “lasts” they’re haunted with—not knowing they would be lasts. And I think about all the firsts they will endure without their loved one—first Christmas, first birthday…
There are always questions. Why them? There’s guilt that it didn’t happen directly to you, and worry that it will.
So what do you do to break out of the deep sadness caused by real, logical grief and not just what-ifs?
What I Do When I’m Filled with Sadness
The key for me is to move outside of myself. When I’m dwelling only on my own pain, I simmer in it and it cooks me. But when I turn outside of it, I can see something else.
Here’s what I do to get outside of myself:
- I listen to the birds sing, all their different songs. The melodies, the chirps, the strange mechanical sounds of the myna.
- I pet my dog and notice how soft he is.
- I compartmentalize and try to forget whatever sadness is in my heart. Hey, I’m keeping it real. My first reaction is always to run from the pain.
- I throw myself into work. Here I am, writing.
- I take a shower or a bath, even if it makes me cry a little.
- I try to convince myself this pain is part of the human condition. This one doesn’t work all that well, but I’m trying.
- I go for a walk and look for something that shouldn’t be where it is, like a flower pushing through a crack in the sidewalk and then I marvel at how that could happen and everything that needs to go into it.
- I sit in the pain. Usually after I’ve tried to outrun it, I ruminate and let myself feel all of it.
- I listen to a mix of my favorite songs. It’s hard to stay sad when Cyndi Lauper or Katrina and the Waves is coming through the speaker.
- I pay attention to personal hygiene. This one doesn’t make me feel better the way it seems to for some people, but it keeps me from feeling worse.
- I read.
- I try to think about it as a learning experience. Admittedly, this one sucks. But the intellectual in me is always trying to make sense of what feels like random pain.
What I’m Not Good at in Managing Sadness
I obviously don’t have all the answers. I’m not Brianna Wiest.
Here’s what I tend to screw up:
- Knowing what to say. I know, a writer without words. But the words I write are labored over. In the moment, I’ve got nothin’.
- Hugging. I’m not a hugger, and I know that’s what most people need at a time like this. But I’m just not good at it. I’m awkward and sticklike. Nothing comforting in that.
- Keeping a positive attitude. This is why I usually say very little when faced with a grim medical prognosis. Stage 4 is the end in cancer. There is no stage 5. I assume everyone knows this, but sometimes they don’t. And when I say something matter-of-factly and see the horror on their face, like they’re only now realizing their loved one may die without a miracle, I feel terrible. So when friends share medical details, I try to put on my best poker face and simply nod because in times like that, I have the bedside manner of Dr. House.
- Being part of a community. I process loss by myself. I withdraw. I’m not the person who brings you casseroles, even though I know I probably should.
Things are unbelievably heavy right now, on so many fronts, for so many people. I often think of this as the “end of the empire.” A time of great riches and great pain. I’d like to tell you how to barrel through it or offer you a big hug, but that’s not me.
What I can do is walk with you in silence. We can listen to the sound of each other’s breath and remember that this is the only moment we have.