State of Grief

Sweet Reader - My learning stories pile atop my desk...from the Grand Canyon to South Africa, and the millions of breaths in between. I'd promised a few folks a share about some of my South Africa experience. And I will, but truly, I've been dancing in and out of sadness for weeks, and if nothing else, I do make efforts to be honest about my feelings and lessons in this venue. So, for this month, I invite you to visit sadness with me.

A couple of years ago, a friend shared a perfect analogy with me about emotions. Emotional feelings are like the weather, they blow in... they blow out. Emotional states are not meant to be static. Consider, for a moment, any experience you may have had at a funeral "after party." From one minute to the next, you might move from sadness about the loss of a loved one - to anger about the car parked in the wrong spot by a spouse - to joy, complete with ruckus laughter, inspired by a memory. Then, a moment later, the grief and sadness sweeps back in.

Here in New England, we know how to prepare for a storm. We haul our sand and snow melt up from the basement. The refrigerator gets stocked with all the essentials, and the fireplace wood is neatly stacked within walking distance of the back door. When the blizzard blows in, it may hang out with us for a while, but rarely does it linger more than 48 hours. If it does, we call and ask for whatever help we need . Whether it's the electric company, the municipal plows, or the Red Cross, we don't hesitate to ask for help. We are meant to do the same when an emotion gets stuck - call for help!

On November 8th, I got caught in a storm I didn't see coming. In my insulated Massachusetts bubble, I just never imagined, when I sat down to fold laundry and watch the election results roll in, that I was not about to watch the first woman become the president elect of our country. I don't know how you voted. I'm not attempting to change your mind, nor am I asking you to change mine. I'm really just sharing about the sense of shock I experienced. I literally sat in front of my television until 2:30am, believing something would change, because my mind had simply never prepared for this reality.

The day before the election, my husband read a beautiful piece to me. A newsletter, written by Samvedam Randles, captured a thread of belief my husband and I have been hanging onto throughout this entire election process. We theorized, all of the toxic vitriol, prejudice, and sexism held by each of us, was coming up for healing, because all of these things (and much more) were being brought into the spotlight. I've since heard this notion affirmed by folks a lot smarter than me, so it may have merit. Samvedam's prose focused primarily on women with some history of sexual assault, and the brave process of healing they've engaged in, while so much sexual abuse roiled to the surface during the campaign.

On November 9th, I woke up and cried. I've cried many times since then, but the thought that struck me on that day was: "The abuser won." That's the story that rang true in my head. I know it may not align with yours. For me, it was a way to make sense of my deep sadness.

Then, I listened to the concession speech, which included the line, "And to all the women, and especially the young women, who put their faith in this campaign and in me, I want you to know that nothing has made me prouder than to be your champion." and tears slid like rain on a windowpane. I hadn't even realized I needed a champion, that I'd put my faith in one, until I'd lost one.

When I was 15, I became very close to my 52 year old English teacher. He required each student to keep a personal journal, as a venue for consistent writing. Every so often, we'd turn in the journal to validate that we'd been producing pages. Funny, until just now, I don't remember ever wondering if mine was "typical" or not, but I filled it with many personal details of my life.

I included frustration that the guy I had a crush on had moved back to Ireland, and only corresponded sporadically. I shared about feeling depressed, and wanting to end my life. I don't remember if I ever let it be known that I lived with a schizophrenic mother - that might have been too shaming, even for my abundantly filled journal.

He was an interesting teacher. His classes included concepts like yin and yang, and trust falls, and his spelling quizzes embedded a study technique that I've used ever since. In addition to teaching English, he founded a student sailing club, and led the Peer Advocates program. The latter was a program designed for students about learning to listen - to hang out with people on the ledge - when they felt in need of support. After reading my journal, he asked if I wanted someone to listen, and he volunteered.

We became friends of a sort - as much as any sophomore in high school can befriend a man old enough to be her elderly father (compared with my own parents) or youngish grandfather. We spent lots of time together in his office after school. Eventually, I began asking him personal questions, using my journal as the conduit. Things I wasn't sure it was okay to ask, so I never did in person, only in writing. And he answered - every question - while noting my discomfort about asking verbally.

I struggle to remember the exact timeline of what might have been going on with my Mom that year, but life with her was rarely free of chaos. Amid the chaos, a scarcity of funds consistently hung over our heads. Despite my attempts to find a legitimate job (other than regular babysitting, which only paid $1/hr. per child), no one could legally hire a 15 year old for any kind of retail or restaurant work.

That spring, my teacher offered me a couple of days work on his boat. He knew of our financial circumstances, because there was little I didn't share, and the pay was better than any babysitting gig I could get. On the boat, though, things took a turn.

The 15 year old innocent flirt met up against a man who thought something more physical might come of our connection. We were alone on the boat, each sanding away, while he began to ask me questions of a sexual nature. "Do you masturbate?" I said, "no." But in truth, I had no idea what he was talking about. My naiveté was clearly lost on him, because he continued to ask me things that I had no relationship to.

At the close of our first few hours together, he stood me in front of him, while he sat in the center of the boat. He touched my breasts through my shirt and bra, and talked. He kissed me several times, and if there was more, I don't remember. What I do remember is feeling scared. It's not that I wasn't curious, but mostly, fear overwhelmed and paralyzed me. This was an "old man" that I trusted with every little thought that came into my head. Someone I had NO physical attraction to, and yet...how could this be happening?

I went back with him to work on the boat one more time. I couldn't figure out how to say "no," and I really believed I needed the money. By some kind of grace, he'd just had oral surgery, so he said, "there won't be any passionate kissing today." I felt relieved, and yet, still scared, and not a little angry. I couldn't have even told you why I was angry, because I didn't know I had a right to be, but my "fuck you teenaged attitude," probably told the tale in the only way I could at the time.

In my junior year, I had a melt down, at home, one day, and consequently started seeing a therapist. Eventually, I revealed my experience to the counselor (I'd never told anyone up to that point), and the police were called in. He lost his job. The abuser didn't win that day. And, while relieved not to pass him in the halls any more, I never felt like I'd won either.

In my early 20's I called his house. I lived in Boston, while he still had a residence in CT. I spoke with his wife, and learned that he was working in Maine. I must have asked for the number, because I called him, and tried to acquire some closure for myself. We talked. He apologized. He claimed he'd never done anything like that before or since, but who knows.

In my late 20's I found him again through the internet. We exchanged a number of emails. At that point, he'd been struck with some sort of neural disease that prevented him from sitting still for any long periods of time, because it caused him significant physical pain. I don't remember much about those emails, except that I have a vague sense of rediscovering the man I'd cared about. Somewhere in there was the person who recognized my distress, and stood with me...until HE became a cause of my distress, by taking advantage of my trust, my vulnerability, and my need.

Every so often, I've looked him up again. I never reached out. I just sort of kept tabs on whether he was alive or not. About six or seven years ago, I did think about seeing him, but I couldn't quite perceive a purpose, so I didn't. There was nothing left to say. It's just that he'd had a big impact on my life, both positive and negative. I've done bundles of healing work around this experience, but as you may have heard me say many times, this work is like a spiral staircase. We see the same wounds and patterns again and again, just from a different perspective and a deeper space within.

Right around the time of the election, I Googled him for the first time in a long while. He died earlier this year. They held a memorial service for him in May. He died after 85 years of life.

When I started writing this, I had no idea I'd end up here. I hadn't planned what I would say, I just trusted that my feelings and experiences would come forth, and perhaps something in this might be relatable to you. It's funny, if I hadn't kept that journal, I don't know that I would have developed the intimate writing muscles, that I've exercised nearly every month for so many years now.

What I can tell you is this: I've been feeling sad. On and off, but enough on that I've called in the troops. In the past few weeks, I've leaned on my personal Red Cross team to support my healing. With the election, there's some part of me that believes: "I lost a champion, and the abuser won" - it's a familiar and personal tale for me.

Thank you for being on this journey with me. If no part of you relates to this piece, you might simply consider it a gentle reminder to call in your own Red Cross team when you need them. We're not meant to weather the storms alone. If we were, there wouldn't be so many of us.

With love and gratitude,
Joanne Lutz