An Introvert's Guide To Grief
Susan Gower Hello. My name is Susan and I am an introvert. In this terrible time following the death of my son, so many people have reached out to me. I am deeply grateful for their kindness and offers of help. Most of these offers have involved some form of social interaction. Lunch. Coffee. Phone calls, visits, walks, and outings large and small. We are all social creatures, in need of human interaction. But here’s the thing. The pain of this loss is so terrible that I can’t believe I survived. Sometimes I think that when his heart stopped, so did mine. The rest of me just hasn’t been notified yet. I feel broken - as if I am wandering around, picking up pieces of myself and trying to fit them back together. So to all of you who have been patiently waiting, again, thank you. I love you all. Forgive me my distance. We had two funerals for my son – a memorial service in Minnesota, where we had lived for many years, and a graveside service in Michigan, where my husband and I will also be buried someday. So we shipped his body to Michigan and we all flew there for the graveside service. As we passed through airports, cheerful airport personnel asked, “So, are you going on vacation?” We tried to answer as simply as possible, “no.” But most people would not let it go at that. “Visiting friends? Gonna do some fun things?” Or we’d go to a restaurant and servers, trained to be sociable and outgoing, asked, “So, what are we celebrating tonight?” There we were. Seven sad people, trudging through airports. The chipper people we encountered didn’t know. Of course they didn’t. We should have had black armbands. Dark veils. Visible signs of our loss. Now his birthday is coming up. I should be buying presents. I should be baking him a big, gooey chocolate cake. Now he will never be 21. In some societies people are encouraged to express the full range of their feelings of rage and loss. I rather envy them. I confess I have felt the urge to rip out my hair, tear at my skin until I bleed, to lie down on the coffin and hold him one more time. Shocked? Sorry. Of course I do none of these things. Outwardly I exhibit a kind of numb acceptance of my loss. Inside I rage and bleed. The truth is, none of us escapes this pain. But some of us handle it differently. During this mourning process, the extrovert needs even more attention and social interaction than usual, while the introvert is more exhausted than usual by the very same process. So what does the introvert do? Everybody is different, so here I speak for myself. I seek small pockets of isolation. At the funeral home I shut myself in a stall in the restroom, breathing deeply and repeating, “No, no, I’ll be out in a minute. I’m fine. No, you go on, I’ll be right there,” to worried restroom visitors. Or I disappear out of a side door, hide behind the garage, where I burst into a fit of weeping. Then I pull myself together when hearing my name called. We all want and need people around during a time of death. It's comforting to know that others care. But grief is exhausting. I need a lot of downtime. During those early days I remember mumbling “I just don’t know how I’m going to go on. I just don’t know. I don’t think I can do this…” I have found in the weeks and months since my son’s death, that my therapist is my best defense. When people urge me to “share” or to tell them about things that I am not ready to talk about and may never be ready to talk about, I simply say that I am seeing a good therapist and discuss those matters with her. Please, please, understand. I don’t mean to be rude or disrespectful. I need and want people who love me and people who loved him. Here’s the thing. It is imperative that you give me time alone. As much time as I need, whether you think it is too much or not. If you love me, be patient. If you love me, let me be myself, to do this my way, even if it seems wrong to you, even if that is not the way you did it when you had a loss. Come, sit with me if you like. But sometimes could you sit with me in silence? Right now I am like a lighthouse beacon, constantly searching out over a dark ocean, looking and listening for my boy. Sometimes I need to be alone, to have the silence and space I need to find him and bring him home. Sound crazy? Oh well. My name is Susan and I am an introvert. |
|
About the Author:
Susan Gower is a retired attorney and freelance writer. Her work has appeared in many newspapers, magazines and literary journals. She lives in Luck, Wisconsin with her husband, Mike, and her cat, Chester.
Susan Gower is a retired attorney and freelance writer. Her work has appeared in many newspapers, magazines and literary journals. She lives in Luck, Wisconsin with her husband, Mike, and her cat, Chester.
