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Under the surface: 05/25/22
May. 25th, 2022 12:50 pmI'm a queer, non-binary, neurodiverse person with invisible disabilities, coping with a sometimes-overwhelming burden of grief: tomorrow is the first anniversary of my brother's death.
I have a difficult time connecting to most people-- especially with family-- but he felt like a sort of parallel, mirror-self moving about in the world. His loss upended my family and my understanding of my place in the world. I'm just starting to have the space to get rooted again, but it's still a struggle.
People who haven't experienced this sort of loss seem to think grief passes like a sprained ankle, and seem to confuse the time it takes to regain your composure with the time it takes to recover. I don't know that you really get to recover. From my personal experience and from what I've read, you just learn to carry the pain and manage it, like you've developed a new chronic illness.
The clinical and evolutionary descriptions of grief place it under the umbrella of "separation anxiety." It sounds trivial at first, like someone's over-nervous dog chewing up shoes when left at home, but we form bonds because our lives depend on it. Separation from our loved ones triggers anxiety because the animals of our bodies interprets this as a vulnerability-- millennia of honed instincts tell us we are threatened and unsafe. So we call out to our loved ones to find them and share protection. When someone dies, that call is never answered again. The clinical description of acclimatization to the pain of permanent separation falls under "learned helplessness"-- i.e., it doesn't stop hurting, but you learn that there is nothing you can do to change it.
There is, of course, more to the story with each love, each relationship that we lose. But the basic wiring doesn't change much.
There are so many things I wish I could say about my brother, so many things I wish the world knew so that he could be held closer just a little longer-- even if just as a figure in a story playing out in a stranger's imagination. But how do you begin? How do you contain a person's being in words, especially after they're gone? I held him as a baby, I coaxed him along during his first steps, helped him learn numbers and letters and How Things Work, watched him grow in talent, watched him outgrow me in many ways, then watched his young life cut short. The story sealed shut with an abrupt, senseless ending. But that is all about me, that doesn't touch on the brilliant, vibrant being that held a place in the world for three decades.
It's frightening to see how completely small we all are.
I have a difficult time connecting to most people-- especially with family-- but he felt like a sort of parallel, mirror-self moving about in the world. His loss upended my family and my understanding of my place in the world. I'm just starting to have the space to get rooted again, but it's still a struggle.
People who haven't experienced this sort of loss seem to think grief passes like a sprained ankle, and seem to confuse the time it takes to regain your composure with the time it takes to recover. I don't know that you really get to recover. From my personal experience and from what I've read, you just learn to carry the pain and manage it, like you've developed a new chronic illness.
The clinical and evolutionary descriptions of grief place it under the umbrella of "separation anxiety." It sounds trivial at first, like someone's over-nervous dog chewing up shoes when left at home, but we form bonds because our lives depend on it. Separation from our loved ones triggers anxiety because the animals of our bodies interprets this as a vulnerability-- millennia of honed instincts tell us we are threatened and unsafe. So we call out to our loved ones to find them and share protection. When someone dies, that call is never answered again. The clinical description of acclimatization to the pain of permanent separation falls under "learned helplessness"-- i.e., it doesn't stop hurting, but you learn that there is nothing you can do to change it.
There is, of course, more to the story with each love, each relationship that we lose. But the basic wiring doesn't change much.
There are so many things I wish I could say about my brother, so many things I wish the world knew so that he could be held closer just a little longer-- even if just as a figure in a story playing out in a stranger's imagination. But how do you begin? How do you contain a person's being in words, especially after they're gone? I held him as a baby, I coaxed him along during his first steps, helped him learn numbers and letters and How Things Work, watched him grow in talent, watched him outgrow me in many ways, then watched his young life cut short. The story sealed shut with an abrupt, senseless ending. But that is all about me, that doesn't touch on the brilliant, vibrant being that held a place in the world for three decades.
It's frightening to see how completely small we all are.
