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PART I

      Theory

1

      The Language of Grief

      When There Are No Words

      Briana MacWilliam

      What you never get over

      Many times, I have heard the expression, “Some things you never get over, you just learn to carry them.” It’s a phrase that rings both true and false for me. Yes, old patterns of relating affect the ways we interact with new people. And yes, some wounds cut so deep we are left with scarring. But there is a difference between climbing over something and/or dragging it behind you, and stopping to cut it up into itty-bitty pieces, cook it over a campfire and then eat it, so you can keep going, unencumbered. Sitting down to write this book, I found myself banging my head against the wall, trying to take a definitive position on whether or not there are some losses you just can’t get over. Ultimately, the stand I decided to take is this: I don’t know.

      I don’t know if grief is something a person will ever be rid of, or if it is something he or she will simply learn to carry. Or if it is something you think you’ve gotten over, and then it shows up again at your back door. The truth is, no one else can tell you either. Only you can answer that question for yourself. I can tell you from my own experience and the experiences of others, loss is something that will never go away.

      And in that vein, here’s another quote for you, “Attachment is the root of all suffering.” I saw this as I was happily researching articles on attachment theory, looking for clinical support for this book. It stopped me in my tracks. There I was, with the aim of offering hope to grievers and clinicians alike, and Buddha had to throw a wrench in the works. At first, I took the meme as a personal criticism; “You’re steering people towards suffering,” it told me. But then I realized it was a thumbs up that I was headed in the right direction. After all, how can we overcome suffering—or learn to carry it, or cut it up into itty-bitty pieces—if we are unwilling to address it?

      As an art therapist, I have been largely trained in the psychoanalytic tradition, which, in its modern configuration, is a humanistic clustering of theories aimed at examining the machinations of our biological drives, the ego and its relationship to early attachment “objects,” and the development of a self-identity. While analysis has been criticized for being a horse of a different color, with no unifying vernacular or streamlined modus operandi (unlike behavioral sciences, which are often based on a single and uniformed model), I would argue its strength lies in this varied approach. Examining psychic phenomena—such as the experience of grief—from within numerous frameworks allows us to see alternate patterns and transfer our point of view, according to the needs of the individual (Pine, 1990).

      But one need not accrue the student loan debt that I have to grasp the common thread throughout all of these theories, which is this: relationships are important. Chances are, you already knew that (because everybody knows that) but how they are important, and in what way for each and every individual, slips into a gray area that has kept many an analyst well fed and living on the Upper West Side (at least, in New York City). It is not my intention with this book to paint a black and white picture, or to suggest formulaic solutions, but to illuminate just how foggy it all is, and offer a small but steady nightlight.

      The title of this chapter, “When there are no words,” alludes to an experience of loss that shakes us to our very core. From our earliest beginnings, we form a sense of self through what are called “identifications,” which is a fancy word for saying, “in relationship to others” (or more specifically, our perception of others). As infants, we are prompted to respond to a collection of sounds, and eventually learn that these sounds are called “words.” The first word a child is encouraged to learn is his or her name, and hot on its heels, the use of a first person pronoun: “I,” “me,” “mine,” “myself,” etc. A mastery of these words allows us to think abstractly and thus identify with this concept of “self” in relationship to others (both animate and inanimate objects). Thus, we think we know who we are based on our affiliations and the things we own (literally and figuratively). This is when the ego—our thinking self—assumes its throne.

      My last name, MacWilliam, is Scottish and it means, “son of William.” The name, which has lasted for generation upon generation, exemplifies this defining of one’s self in relation to (or in belonging to) another person. But what happens if we lose that person? What happens if I assume someone else’s last name? What meaning does a name have then? What meaning does the “I” have, if I no longer have an identification to tell me? Who am “I” now?

      Perhaps, I am without words. Without a name. But I still am. And I have experienced a shift in self-consciousness: I am not my thoughts, but my awareness of them. Albert Einstein referred to the “illusory sense of self” as an “optical illusion of consciousness.” Spiritualist Eckhart Tolle assures us, however, “The recognition of illusion is also its ending. In seeing who you are not, the reality of who you are emerges by itself” (2005, p.28). I am not suggesting the only way to be your authentic self is to leave all your loved ones behind and live in isolation for the rest of your life. I am suggesting that the illusion grief creates—a feeling as if you cannot go on, or your life is irreparably damaged—is one that prevents you from inhabiting a more whole sense of self. It’s true, you may never be the same; you might find ways to grow! You might also crash around butting up against whatever external people, places, and things help you recreate that illusion—until it dissolves again. And it will. Because, as I said before, loss is here to stay.

      Six myths about grief

      At a national conference for writers, I attended a workshop in which a presenter posed the question, “What is it about love that we can’t get enough of?”

      A woman in the audience raised her hand and said, “Love heals.”

      Immediately, I thought, “Why isn’t that a bumper sticker?” Then my thoughts circled around the experience of grief—of love lost; a void that is not always felt in the physical sense, but in the absence of spirit. Sometimes loneliest of all when the lost love object is standing right next to you, a living reminder of what once was. “Love heals” is not a bumper sticker because when we think about love we cannot help but think about the pain the loss of it causes, and who wants to be reminded of that at every red light?

      As a society, we do not know how to talk about or handle our grief. And this affects all aspects of life, even the most trivial. To cope, we develop myths about the appropriate ways to handle grief. There are many myths out there; some