I have fallen down a few rabbit holes on Instagram recently following hastags relating to widows. I have no idea when and how it started. I think out of curiosity ... What kind of people are hashtaging widowing on insta?
There’s loads of them: widowsofinstagram livingwithgrief awidowsguidetogrief modernwidowsclub being_widowed
I have found it interesting, enlightening, perplexing, frustrating, eye-opening and reassuring.
I hadn’t really thought about the existence of such tags and online communities until I became a widow and I was sent, approximately 87 times, the TED talk by the founder of the Hot Young Widows Club, Nora McInerny.
Her TED talk about not moving on from, but forward, with grief - which came out not that long after Pete died - made me feel normal. Made me think that maybe it was OK that I didn’t wear black and walk around distraught with tears.
Recently I read her book and it was the same. Apparently it’s perfectly normal to spend inordinate amounts of money on material things when your husband dies (phew – normal!) and its perfectly ok to be ok, albeit randomly dissolving into tears, and its perfectly ok to drink a whole lot of wine.
But checking out widowing on Instagram took my reassessment of myself and my reaction to our situation to a whole new level.
There is a lot of anger out there in widow land. A lot of finding god. A lot of inspirational words and quotes. A lot of woe is me. A lot of ‘you know nothing because you are not a widow’. A lot of stuff that doesn’t equate to my experience.
So down these rabbit holes I have dived and I’ve popped back out wondering if I am doing something wrong with grieving. Again, questioning if I am, in fact, failing at widowing. Or if the voices of angry people are the loudest also in widowing like they are in the real and online world?
This is what I have concluded from my citizen science research of widowing online in comparison to my own.
I’m not angry at my situation. Full stop. I have pondered this A LOT. And the thing is, I have no anger in my grief*.
I’m not angry at Pete for leaving. I’m not angry to be left in this situation. I’m not angry about his death. I’m not angry at anyone for his death.
Being angry seems like such a misplaced emotion to me in this situation. Who am I meant to be angry at? And what for? And how much energy will it expend if I am angry when I have so many other emotions swirling around? I actually don’t have the space to be angry when I have so much space taken up by dealing with the kids’ sad and bereft emotions and my own at losing Pete.
And that’s odd to a lot of people. So. Many. People. have asked me if I’m angry, or suggested that I should be angry, or just blurted out “well of course you’re angry about it”.
And online, it appears that’s a really normal thing. To be angry. Almost viciously angry, about being a widow and being left to deal with widowhood alone.
I think maybe it comes to down to how Pete died. I think it might be different if he or anyone else had made a decision that led to Pete’s death. But he and they didn’t. It just happened.
I’ve read the memes about widows searching for “all the people who said they’d be there” (and there are LOTS) and I can’t understand the almost spiteful anger in them.
Because my villagers are still here. Because all the people who told me that ‘everyone will disappear after 3 months’ have actually been wrong. They are still here. And I figure if they’re still here now, then they are in it for the long haul with us.
I can understand that widows have been let down by people who they thought would be there for them, but it probably says more about those other people than the widows.
I’ve tried being angry at people who said and did things that hurt me, hurt our family, or who have distanced themselves from our lives. But they are such a minority group that it perplexes me sometimes that they take up a lot of headspace. And while I don’t understand how they are dealing with it, their words and actions, everyone’s grief is different, and their actions are exactly that – theirs. They are responsible for what they said, and did, or didn’t do. Not me.
I’ve tried being angry at the enormity of our current situation. But what’s the point? I can’t change it. No one can change it. Death is the only thing in this world you cannot change. So how can I be angry at something I cannot influence, change, re-route, or alter? What would being angry at that achieve?
I’ve tried being angry at needing to do all the things. I can’t be. I can be exhausted and bewildered by it all – but angry? Not really … because that bit hasn’t changed all that much.
I’m no saint – I actually get angry a bit. I’m truly outrageous as I go thundering down the hallway screaming blue murder over the fact there are plates and cups left in the loungeroom, or I’ve found school uniforms on the bathroom floor when I’ve asked for them to be put in the washing machine, or if someone has left the lid off the butter and the cat is helping itself to a calcium fix, or if when I ask someone to walk or feed the dogs I can barely get a raised eyebrow from an electronic device much less any movement towards finding a lead or tin of food.
But you know what, after the outburst, the ranting and yelling and a walk to the park with a dog - who while still clearly unable to come when he’s called which can often also lend itself to some frustrated pleading – our house recentres itself and we move on.
I’m actually not entirely sure if I’m any more or less unhinged in the ranting mother stakes since Pete died … at least these days it’s not over a tea cup left in the loungeroom with two used tea bags sitting, drying, on the coffee table … because the hysterically uttered “why am I the only one doing all these things” definitely came out of my mouth before January this year.
I can’t understand the all the online statements and memes about ‘you don’t know if you’re not a widow’ type stuff. Because I don’t really understand the belittling of people trying to empathise with your situation, successfully or not … isn’t it better that they are at least they are trying?
I can’t really align myself to some of the inspirational quotes about widow-hood and fighting back from the brink or just getting out of bed because I kind of get back to the whole ‘don’t have a choice’ thing.
People can’t understand how I can get out of bed and do things – they tell me this. I don’t understand how they think I could not – I don’t have a choice, I’ve got four kids to get organised and a dog that barks if it isn’t walked and a cat that gets very heavy sitting on my chest if I don’t feed it of a morning. Those lightly coloured often floraly tiles on instagram just don’t resonate with me, don’t inspire me, don’t somehow suddenly allow me to give myself permission to be happy. In fact, the fact they often point out I’ll never be without grief again can have the opposite effect!
I can’t do to whole finding God thing either. Can’t get on board with all the references to faith. There’s loads of those. And there are actually loads of our friends who have a very strong faith. And I admire that. But that’s not me. I can’t suddenly start looking for reasons there, asking a deity for guidance or assistance when I wasn’t there asking for that beforehand. And having spoken to some of these friends around Pete’s death, they’re doing it for me. I reckon the person they’re talking to is going to pay a bit more attention to someone who’s been there talking to them for a while, than me – the person who just lobbed up looking for answers to the actually unanswerable question of ‘why?’.
And so I’ve decided that with my grief, I’m replacing anger with an over-supply of love and laughter … and a lot of alcohol and food.
Because I don’t know how to do it any other way.
How to do anything other than laugh at the ridiculously enormous situation in front of me. It’s so sad and awful that if you didn’t laugh you’d cry ALL the time. And that’s really exhausting. So I just cry in little bits, expel all my sadness for that period of time, and then take a deep breath and deal with what’s in front of me – which is usually a child saying “what’s for dinner?” or “she hit me”. And then ring or text or visit a friend/s and have them tell me that its ok, it’s a shit day, or a shit thing and here’s a wine, and do you want to stay for dinner?
Pete had all these ridiculous sayings about doing things you didn’t want to do like ‘eating the frog’ or ‘how do you eat an elephant’.
And the answers to these things: ‘do the hardest thing first’ and ‘one bite at a time’ is kind of how I’m trying to approach grief.
Trying to do the hard things as they happen rather than letting the frog sit there and fester and get bigger, and taking one bite at a time and trying not to vomit if I find myself talking too many bites at once.
And I think I’m going to stop looking up widow hashtags on Instagram unless they are people who are doing it like I am. Because I’m not the only one who is sitting out here in widow land saying “well this is shit….” But then taking a big deep breath, putting on my big girl pants, standing up and doing something – anything - to resurrect their family and keep their own little world turning despite the fact it has basically imploded, because: reality.
*Edited to add – I probably am angry at something in my grief. And that is grief itself. I’m not sure if its anger or frustration or a completely warped sense of my own capabilities. But I might get a bit angry that grief impacts my ability to physically do things. I’ve never had an emotional thing stop me from being able to DO things. Like work and drive and think and sleep … Grief has, and continues, to. It frustrates me immensely if I cannot do things I think I should be able to, or have always been able to. It’s probably a whole other blogpost about learning to accept my own limitations (not something I’ve ever been entirely good at) and to lower my own expectations (again, not something I’m great at). That might be my next citizen science adventure … its probably going to be less expensive than shoe buying and less scary than widow hastags!
Comments