All the books tell you not to isolate yourself in your grief.
To reach out to people.
To keep your friends.
To make new ones that understand what you are going through.
Well, that sounds easy, in theory.
However, in truth, it’s hard to make friends when you’re an introvert, and even harder when you’ve experienced a devastating loss.
We are so lonely, and yet, we find it easier to be alone. The introvert in us wants to connect but finds it impossible to initiate or to put ourselves out there.
We’ve struggled greatly to make the friends we have, to get past the awkward stages, to be ourselves, and after our loss, some of those friends disappeared.
It’s just the nature of the beast.
And it’s especially hard.
The reality of making new friends who understand what you’re going through, that you can connect with on this level, would mean that they too have experienced a significant loss.
In that case, they are probably isolating themselves as well.
So how are we going to accomplish this?
For an introvert, this all sounds like an impossible task. It’s like telling a leper to go out and make new friends.
And by a leper, I mean someone who lives in isolation, and not by choice, but by condition. Someone who wants to be with the group, but society has deemed them different, unapproachable, contagious.
Imagine, back in the day, having to yell out, “unclean, unclean” anytime someone walked near you.
Well, as a bereaved parent, that’s exactly how we feel.
We might as well have a flashing neon sign on our heads that says, “unapproachable.” We feel like a leper.
Someone to be avoided.
Our culture has a strange way of dealing with grief. Especially that of a child, in an out of order death.
No one knows what to do or say.
It’s all very awkward.
At first, people come out of the woodwork. You didn’t know you knew so many!
But, it’s a devasting loss, and they want to show their support. They are shocked, saddened, and curious.
Even estranged family may suddenly reappear. Whatever it was that they were estranging you for suddenly doesn’t seem so important – not with your son or daughter lying in a casket.
But, just to warn you, they will, quite possibly, disappear again just as quickly.
Sorry. I wish it weren’t so, but unfortunately, you are going to find that isolation is a very real part of grief – whether you want it to be or not.
If you’re an introvert who finds it hard to put yourself out there anyway, it’s going to feel especially lonely.
For most introverts, any kind of rejection, conflict, or estrangement is devasting enough, to begin with. Add to that your worst possible nightmare unfolding in front of you, and you’ve got a real hot mess on your hands.
Yourself.
When the estranged show up like nothing ever happened, telling you how much they miss your person and casually throwing out the words, “Call me if you’d like to get-together,” it’s just plain weird.
That action no longer lives in my very limited skill set. I won’t be calling.
In fact, I have developed a real love/hate relationship with my phone.
Hopefully, you will find someone that understands, and that is willing to befriend you. Someone to walk this path with.
They are out there – but right, you aren’t exactly the cool kid on the playground with this black cloud and neon sign over your head screaming, “Hey, my kid died, wanna hang out?”
For the bereaved, making new friends requires conversation, and conversation for the introvert is tricky.
In our case, new conversations with people eventually lead to THE QUESTION.
A seemingly innocuous question to normal people, but for us?
A landmine.
“How many children do you have?”
The Hardest Question To Answer
Your answer may be enough to send people running in the opposite direction.
Even if you have geared up for that question.
Even if you’ve planned your response.
Your actual answer will most likely be far different when face to face with the asker.
You might start crying and walk away. You might launch into the whole TMI story, and they may walk away.
Or you say, “Two, one is in heaven,” with a similar result.
The internet can be somewhat helpful in finding someone to talk to, possibly through one of the many online support groups.
They certainly will understand your despair. They are rooted in it as well, and probably struggling greatly – that’s why they joined.
I found being in several grief groups to be very depressing. Our loss was our son, age 24, to overdose.
You can’t imagine how many groups there are for loss due to overdose. They are even type-of-drug specific. I could only read so many stories and see so many beautiful faces gone before I wanted to crawl in a hole.
I visit once in a while, but I can’t stay long.
A big plus to online friends is that you can chat comfortably from your bed or isolation unit. You don’t have to get dressed or worry about the tears!
However, they aren’t familiar, they didn’t know your person, and they quite possibly live across the country, or the world.
Which brings us back to feeling like a leper.
But there is hope.
These people are out there — people who aren’t afraid of your black cloud.
Your pain, your grief.
People who share in your struggle or who are good at being supportive.
If you are one of those people, God bless you and thank you for hanging in there. We know it’s hard. We know we aren’t very fun.
Hey, even we don’t want to hang around with us. We don’t want to be us. We know you don’t know what to say to us, and that we can be difficult.
We don’t mean to be; we don’t. It’s just that life has completely changed for us, and we are drowning.
And if we’ve mustered up the courage to reach out to you {probably by text}, we are desperate, so thank you for saying yes.
We are grateful. We probably understand gratefulness now in a way few can.
We are unimaginably grateful for a photograph. A video. Hearing their voice. We are thankful for someone with the courage to say our child’s name. For a hug.
Please Just Help Me Remember My Child
Being asked how we are doing will probably make us cry, because it’s such a kindness after the time passes, and no one inquires anymore.
You see, we know how quickly life can change. We no longer take the little joys in life for granted.
What you’d probably like to hear from us after some time has passed, is how this horrifying tragedy all worked together for good and we are joy-filled and rejoicing.
That despite our loss, we are flourishing.
We are rushing to the aid of the oppressed, starting non-profits, posting uplifting and encouraging meme’s, and sleeping peacefully at night knowing all is right with the world. {If that’s you, you go girl!}
But in all reality, that is hogwash. {What is hogwash anyway? I’ll check and report back below}.
We are struggling.
If a fellow griever has picked up the baton and is making a difference in this world, we will join you in applauding them. But, in all reality, this is just too hard.
We love the days that joy touches our lives, but it still sits side by side with our grief.
We will always be sad, I think.
But we can still be good friends to you. We are compassionate. We can be good listeners.
We don’t remember a lot – so we can keep your secrets!
We might start out a little rough – but if you give us some time and love, we may surprise you. Keep trying friends, and if nothing else, you can say you learned something today: where the word hogwash originated.
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This resonates with me so much. It is difficult to reach out, as a grieving patent, and as an introvert. I know connection is important, but finding *and keeping* friends is a huge challenge. So, we end up wanting those friendships, but ultimately spending many days alone.