On Being Not Okay.

Two months ago by cousin killed himself.

Those words are hard to say. They are hard to think about. They are hard to believe.

After his funeral I told myself I was fine. In the week between his death and his funeral I had cried all the tears I had needed too and I was going to be okay. End of story.

No, beginning of story.

Two months ago my world changed. I described it to my mom as I had woken up and the world was still spinning, but while everyone else’s was spinning normally, mine was spinning upside down and backwards, and from the outside you couldn’t tell because the world was still spinning. I thought that feeling would resolve quickly, but it didn’t. Random moments capture be by surprise, and when I think everything is spinning normally the veil comes crashing down and reveals that my world is still slightly backwards and upside down.

I don’t love emotions. I never have. My college roommate will happily tell you that I don’t cry. Ever. I have cried more in the past two months than I have in years, and for so many weeks I was ashamed of that. “Its been a month, Abby. Pull yourself together. Come on!” “You’re crying again?! Geez, girl!” “This isn’t normal, you need help” “Don’t tell anyone about this, it’s embarrassing” “Do NOT tell that person asking how you are that you’re ‘not okay’” Phrases like these spun around and around in my head.

Mentally, I would check off the stages of grief I’d learned about in every undergrad psych class I took:

1. Denial – I did not believe the words as my dad said them. I woke up the next morning hoping it had been a nightmare.
2. Anger – I was never mad at Paul (consciously), but I was hot with anger toward war and politics and PTSD and our culture and Obama (told my mom I wanted to punch him)
3.  Bargaining – TBH I don’t remember how this one presented in me, but I’m sure it did
4. Depression – Paul’s death came the Tuesday before I started grad school. I love my program and was so excited to start, but getting out of bed and getting myself to work and class felt like some of the most impossible tasks. A low lying level of depression definitely still follows me around these days.
5. Acceptance – he’s gone, I can’t change that, he’s free where he is now, that is good.

I would run through that list and say to myself, "why can't you get over this yet!" or “you’re done, you’ve completed all the stages, pep up!”

Not the case. Four years of studying psychology had not prepared me for the reality of grief. And in all honesty I still don’t understand 100% how it all works or why things happen when they do. Grief doesn't make sense. That's the only thing you can be certain of. The way I am processing this whole situation is markedly different than my mom or brother or aunt or cousin or grandfather.

And that’s okay.

It’s all okay.

My tears are okay. My confusion is okay. My hurt is okay. My backwards world is okay. It’s all okay.

We live in a world where talking about things like this doesn’t happen. We stuff any feelings that aren’t sparkly and pretty and “acceptable” for the world to see deep within ourselves and only encounter them in “weak” moments by ourselves. And I hate this. With a deep and burning passion I hate this. As humans, we were created for relationships, and yet we don’t embrace that. We only engage with people unless we’re tied together with a neat bow. We don't show people our dirt, or sit with them in their's because it's messy and messy scares us.

Talk about it. I read somewhere once that our mental health is just as important as our physical health. Let people know that, please. Care about them so deeply that when you ask “How are you?” you really want to know the truth, that you won’t settle for “good.”

Shed your tears. Feel your pain. Talk about it with someone. Share someones tears. Share their pain, and their confusion, and the depths of the sadness. Remind them that not being okay is the most okay.

Two months ago my cousin killed himself. Two months ago my world started spinning upside down. Two months ago I began learning (and believing) that it’s okay to not be okay, and it’s okay that my not okay looks different than your not okay.

I will shed many more tears, and that is okay. I will miss him, and that is okay. I will get mad, and that's okay. I will feel confused by my emotions, and that is okay. I will be more or less not okay for some time, and that is more than okay. 

The entire world lost a really, really, really incredible man, and it is definitely okay to not be anywhere near okay when I think about that.