Being gentle with yourself can be the hardest thing to do when things get dark. Do it anyway.
This is the time of year for me when things get dark. Outside it is literally gray and dark and cold most of the time. Inside it is equally dark and gray most years for me. January/February will not ever be the same for me and I have to accept that. My cells in my body will not allow me to forget the darkness of these last few days of January leading into February. There is a heaviness, a grief, a weight that sits on me and pulls me down no matter where I am or what I am doing. This year, the dark feels darker, the grief feels deeper, the weight feels heavier.
On January 30, 2011, my ex-husband and father of my oldest child passed away suddenly. He was 35 years old. It has been ten years. It still feels unreal. I can be knocked back to that place in my mother’s home getting that phone call in a heartbeat. I can never forget telling my child. I won’t ever forget either. It changed us forever. It changed so many people forever. It was tragic. It still is.
Over the years I have had different ways of coping with the grief of that day. Many years I was distracted and I ignored the heaviness. Other years I was undone with grief, barely able to function. Some years I celebrated him and our love and our child with deep gratitude and happiness along with feeling the loss. This year, it feels heavy. Maybe because it has been ten years. Maybe because I’m going through personal loss and a rearrangement of my life. Maybe because our world feels hostile and cold. Maybe because death surrounds me on a daily basis with insane amounts of life lost due to a global pandemic. Maybe because what used to be everyday, routine decisions feel risky. Maybe because some of the people who would routinely love on me and support me can’t be around me for our own protections.
This is tough. I want hugs from my people more than I want to eat sometimes and I cannot hug them. I want to sit in the presence of people who love, support and lift me up and that isn’t available to me right now. This pandemic is so isolating and is depriving me of some of my very basic human needs. Yes I have the love and support of my immidiate family-but this is their wound too. This is their pain and grief as well. It would be unreasonable of me to burden my children with my grief. Their hugs and love and support are appreciated and needed but this is a bigger job than that. Physical touch and being in the presence of people with strength, love, hope, and good solid energy is healing. It can lighten your grief, it can make you feel held, it can fill up your cup. Missing out on that for the last 10 months has been devestating. I hug my people. I love on my friends. I enjoy sitting close with my friends and sharing conversations standing in a close circle with co-workers in hallway. I miss seeing smiles and standing close enough to someone to feel their energy or reach out and grab their hand.
The layers of grief this year have to be processed. They have to be felt or it builds up inside and comes out wonky. What does that mean? It means if I don’t cry for the loss of physical touch, I might start spending all my nights watching internet videos to feel connected to something, but not sleeping, which would be a more loving thing to do. If I don’t scream out in anger when I feel mad, I might lose my patience with my children or my students because it is sitting just below the surface, I never let myself process it. I’ve found the safest place to yell into the void is in the car or the beach (when no one else is there). I cry everywhere and I cry often. I am crying as I write at times because writing is a release, for me a way to process what is happening.
This global pandemic has taken away from me many of my coping strategies. It is important for me to grieve that too and to find new ways of dealing in this new reality. Going to Al-Anon meetings is one of my most important self-care actions. I love the hugs, the deep sharing, the courage, and the holding of hands in a circle at the end. There is magic in it. For long periods of time, we have had to meet online. If we are able to meet in person it is six feet away from any other person, no hugs, no seeing smiles because they are covered by masks, and no circle of hands at the end. I miss it so much.
I used to get a massage once a month. It helped me release all of the things I was storing as tension in my body and to experience safe, therapeutic touch. I haven’t gotten a massage in over a year. I bought myself a little machine that can massage your back and neck and I use it often. It is great but it is not a substitute for a person’s healing touch. I made a personal decision not to expose myself to another outside appointment after deciding that getting my hair done was more important to me. It may seem like a silly loss, but I grieve it just the same.
Going out to dinner with a good friend or a group of friends used to be a welcome outlet for times when the world got too heavy. We would eat, drink, and be merry. I miss laughing and feeling free over the hum of a restaurant full of people. Sometimes that collective energy reminds us of our connectedness with others and how a collective energy can be intoxicating and life-giving. Sometimes that breaking of bread breaks us open enough to share what is in our heart and on our minds with others who can love and support us. We are missing out on that right now. Sitting at a restaurant for hours with friends right now carries with it a risk of endangering the people we love, and that kind of takes the fun out of it.
So what do I do now that these and so many other things I used to do for self-care and to ease my burdens are gone? I have to get creative. I have to reach deep in the well of self-compassion, for myself and deep in the well of compassion for others. Self-compassion for me can take on many forms but really what I need to ask myself all the time is, what is the most loving thing I can do for myself and then do that. What are loving things I can do for myself? Everyday is different but here are some examples.
Taking a nap when I’m tired
Calling a friend or a mentor
Exercise or gentle movement
Reading a book, snuggled in a blanket, sitting by the fire
Going out in nature, especially the forest or the beach for me
Reading something uplifting
Knitting
Drawing or painting
Walking the dog
Listening to a meditation, a podcast or solfeggio frequencies
Dancing to loud music
Looking at beautiful things (in real life or on the internet)
Taking a bath or a hot shower
Journaling or writing
Letting myself have a good cry or screaming into the void
Giving myself a big hug or wrapping myself up in a warm blanket
Writing myself a kind note and encouraging myself with words I would use for a friend that was struggling
Seeing my therapist regularly
Attending a weekly recovery meeting
Sitting under my light therapy lamp
Petting the dog or cats
Not visiting Facebook or social media if it makes me feel less than or steals my peace
If you sit down right now and make a list of all of the things in this moment that are stressing you out or causing you grief or contributing to your upset, you might be surprised at how long the list is. January may not be your time of darkness for the same reasons as mine, but it may be dark just the same. If you really sat down in the darkness, would you know how to take care of yourself there? Do you avoid the darkness, your darkness, because you don’t think you will survive it if you let yourself feel it? Do you not think you have the time? I understand. I have been in all of those spaces and had all of the excuses and all of the avoidant strategies. It did not save me from feeling my grief. It comes every year and honestly most days to visit me. I used to slam the door, pretend it wasn’t there and find ways to numb it or distract myself from it. It waited for me. Really. It just built up time after time until it nearly broke me and I had no choice but to face it. It was as bad as I thought it would be. It hurt so bad. It was white hot pain. The only thing that shocked me in the end is that it didn’t kill me. I lived and I still do. I survived it and I still do. I felt it and I processed it and I still do. I am capable of so much more than I believe I am. I am so much stronger than I let myself believe, and you are too.
Compassion is a super power. It is stronger than grief. It is stronger than anger. It is even stronger than loneliness. It can come from others but most importantly it can come from yourself. Do not withhold this power from yourself. It can fill your cup, warm your heart, and ease your soul. I am being tested this year in my self-compassion generosity. I am being challenged to get creative with it and to allow time for it, to make it my top priority. It is not easy and I need reminders to do it (thank you to my therapist and Al-anon sponsor) but, when I practice it, my darkness gets lighter. In a world where I can feel hopeless and isolated (especially right now) it helps to know that I have my own back. Even in my darkest, most heavy places, I have a soft spot to land. That soft spot is me. It is my self-compassion. Today that looks like tears, writing, cozy clothes, gentle movement, writing, knitting, a nap, and feeding my body food without judgement. It looks like sharing my darkness with others so that they know they are not alone, and that they can survive any darkness if they are willing to show up for themselves. So, so much love for all of you. Hold yourself tight, it won’t always be dark.