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I feel so alone
I frequently hear from people who tell me, “I have no one to talk to. Nobody understands what I’m going through. I feel so alone.” If this is your experience, it’s time to find a counselor, a support group or a friend with whom you can share your thoughts and feelings. Ideally, you will connect with all three, but start somewhere.
When my husband died of colon cancer in 2008, I was fortunate to have a very dear friend who was sadly unfortunate to have also lost her partner. The fact that we were both going through life-altering loss gave us a bond and an outlet unlike any friendship I have ever shared.
We were able to let go, cry and laugh without fear of the other person’s judgment or boredom from our need to tell the story of loss over and over until we had made some sense of the experience. Together we went on weekend trips, shopping, movies and dinners out. With every outing we learned more about ourselves and we felt profoundly supported in our individual process of grief and growth.
Where it gets difficult to find support is when the change you are experiencing is what I call “unofficial loss.”
Since moving to Montana, I have had occasion to hire a talented handyman. He knows how mechanical things work. He has a proactive eagle-eye for potential problems and can fix or install just about any kind of system or gadget in the house. He also has a master’s degree in exercise science. For several years, until the local economy sagged, he owned and operated a popular gym. The other day I asked him if he missed running his business.
“Yes,” he said, “although I really like the freedom of what I’m doing these days. I’m actually thinking about retiring early and I probably wouldn’t open another gym now, even if it was financially feasible.”
Going it alone
What he said next struck a deep resonance with me and many of my associates who have had to change careers. Like my handyman, we have created uniquely personal business niches, independent of the organizations or industries that no longer have a place for us.
“What I really miss,” he explained, “is the recognition of my value as a person outside of my former accomplishments. Previously, I was a business owner, a professional in a career that many envied. I served on the local chamber of commerce. And I enjoyed using my knowledge of physiology to help clients understand what exercises they could do to alleviate different kinds of physical discomfort. People understood the value of my work, and there was a certain status in that.
“Now, when I tell people that I’m a handyman—even though I am still an independent business owner—they give me an uncomfortable stare, almost as if they are embarrassed for me. It just so happens that I am very good at what I do, and I am on retainer with a number of prominent landowners to maintain their properties. But because I don’t have a fancy business card with a bunch of letters after my name, I feel dismissed and minimized by people who don’t know who and what I used to be. It’s hard.”
So, even though our culture is uncomfortable with the subject of death, if the change we have experienced is the passing of a loved one, people get that.They may not know what to say to comfort us, but they do recognize the profundity of the loss.
If our life-changing event is loss of a job, a home, a prized possession or a beloved pet—basically some kind of familiar object or sentient being—that kind of loss is also familiar and understandable and, therefore, “official.”
But the subtle loss of intangibles like status or our familiar place in the world are less easily understood or valued. That lack of recognition can be very isolating. We may berate ourselves for being in grief over something that is "not really loss." And others may withdraw from us because they don't understand how deeply our world has been rocked.
Sogyal Rinpoche
I recently listened to an audio program by Tibetan master Sogyal Rinpoche. One of his statements really knocked me out. Almost as an aside, he said, "Death is alive in life as change." If that is true, then every one is experiencing some kind of death almost daily.
Rinpoche's thesis is that we will die a better death—meaning that the transition will be more natural and more deeply meaningful—if we accept the process of loss as a natural part of life. He also means that we will enhance the quality of our individual lives and relationships if we can honor that fact of loss in ourselves and in every one that we meet.
The point is not to become morbidly obsessed with the idea of universal suffering. What it means to me is that many of us are experiencing seismic shifts in how we view ourselves and in how society views us. Those shifts need to be grieved.
If we are willing to accept only those aspects of change that can be quantified, measured or fit into a tidy box labeled "official," we miss the richness of our own lives. And we negate the value of those whose circumstance may not fit with society's narrow definition of "grievable loss."
I believe we need to turn the dial of consciousness to one of compassionate observation of the person behind the circumstance. I suggest that we step away from judgment of another's position and ask instead, "How is change showing up in that person today?"
Then we can challenge ourselves to send them love and light in the understanding that any change requires adjustment—and sometimes that adjustment confronts people at the very core of their own sense of self worth.
If we can view others in this light of love, we will discover the true value of each individual and of their experience of change—however it may be affecting their lives in this moment. And, of course, we can only do that for others if we first do it for ourselves.
(c) 2013 Cheryl Eckl Communications, Inc.
Cheryl's book, A Beautiful Grief: Reflections on Letting Go has won first prize in the Inspirational Category of Writers' Digest annual self-published book awards. Read more at www.ABeautifulGrief.com
