Many people who mourn don’t feel they can admit the darker parts of grief. The days they don’t get out of bed. The feelings of anger or hopelessness or desperation. Oftentimes, when a grieving person tries to share these darker places, his or her feelings are diminished or silenced by others. “There’s always hope,” we’re told, even when we’re feeling hopeless. “Look on the bright side,” we’re encouraged, even when all feels dark. Few understand that deep darkness is a natural part of grief.
In my own life, every day of grief includes a conversation with despair. Even though I choose to move forward with grief, despair is a dark voice that still speaks, sometimes just in a whisper and other times as a shout. My past, my present and my future have all been touched by death. Sometimes life looks very dark. As I journey with grief, I am learning that despair’s voice is important too. To be whole, this darker voice must be acknowledged and heard, not silenced or diminished.
It’s hard to imagine feeling hopeless about my past. My life with Rob brought me so much joy. Yet, I am the sole custodian of that past now. Everything. From the big events to the seemingly insignificant memories now made priceless by his tragic death. I worry that time will take even our past away from me. If I don’t remember it all, it will slip away. The pressure feels overwhelming. I look through old pictures, and I don’t want to forget a single moment. But how can I ever remember it all alone? Despair whispers, “You can’t.”
In my present, I have little time for conversations with hopelessness. I bear the weight of so much responsibility — four children to raise, a home to tend, finances to manage, a life to rebuild. I cover my ears, talk louder, move faster to drown out hopelessness’ voice. Yet when I’ve tucked my children in at night and the house grows quiet, my fears grow. What if something happens to me? How do I find the energy to really live again? I’ve done this alone for ten months, but can I keep this up? Despair whispers, “You can’t.”
If hopelessness whispers in the past and present, it shouts as I look to the future. Lord willing, I have many years ahead. So many years without Rob. I’ll build the second half of my life without him in it. I’ll retire without him in the camping chair beside me. Even the anticipation of joy is tinged with sorrow. Standing at my childrens’ weddings. Bouncing my grandbabies on my knees. All without him. My daughter asks me, “How do I tell my children someday that they don’t have a Grampie?” I don’t know how to answer, and my future begins to look bleak. What will bring meaning to my life once my children are grown and flown? Will I age alone? How can I shoulder this sorrow for the rest of my life? Despair mocks, “You can’t.”
When hopelessness speaks in my life, I am learning to stop and listen. I no longer shush her or tell her to chin up. I don’t spout verses or platitudes or remind her to have faith. Instead, I attend to her. I listen and cry with her. I tell despair how sorry I am that life feels so dark. I remind her that what she has to say is normal, even if it isn’t the full story. I tell her that her presence, her voice, is important — a natural part of grief.
I want to believe that hope, not its lack, will get the last word in my life. I want to believe that resilience is real and attainable. Nevertheless, hopelessness still speaks. If I am to carry my grief in a way that brings life not death, I am learning that I must listen to despair. I must attend gently to her woundedness. In acknowledging this darker part of grief, in giving her a voice, I will find freedom and peace, life and light.