World's Most Consistent Conversation Killer
It almost never fails. I can kill a conversation and scare just about anyone off, any time, any place. I don't talk about it that often anymore, but it still comes up at times because it's a big part of my life. In fact, there are people who know me now who don't know that I had a sister, or that I lost a sister, or what I've been through over the past almost four years. But whenever I write or talk about something involving death, grief in general, or the loss of my sister, I'm often rewarded with silence, awkwardness, and general stares and lack of response. People just don't know what to do with that. Especially when they are used to someone being funny and seemingly far less sensitive. I think people are surprised when funny people have a painful side to express. Even if it's as simple as something that comes up in the get-to-know-you, "Hey, do you have any brothers or sisters?" "Well, yes I did. But . . . " You'd be surprised how often that happens, and how quickly that conversation ends and I find myself standing alone.

I've run off a lot of people in my life over the past few years. Much of it likely somehow related to them not enjoying knowing someone dealing with the pain of grief. For awhile, you're a novelty. The sad friend or loved one that people want to help and fix. People flock around you, some even really making a stand to stick with you through the tough stuff. You latch onto that because it definitely helps to have people around, showing that they care. You don't know what else to do, so when someone offers to be there and hold your hand a bit, you take it and you cherish it. It's brave of them to offer, and brave of you to accept it. You need people you trust to lean on, someone steady in your world that has just been severely and tragically rocked. But I think people actually think they can fix the grief for you just by being there and listening, and they are disappointed when you don't snap out of it sooner. Or when you act in ways that aren't especially nice. Or when you aren't able to return the favor of 'being there' quite yet. When they realize it'll be awhile before you resemble a human being again, they get discouraged and move on to things less depressing.

You feel like people value you past being entertained, because they make efforts to be there when you are not laughing, and even crying. This gives you courage to talk about the most painful parts and cry about it with the friends who take the time to listen. The few people that really step up and care for you when you're at your worst, you really come to depend on them because they make it easy and safe, when everything else at that time is scary and difficult. It helps tremendously for someone to want to know you in the darkest times of grief, when it's frightening and uncertain and embarrassing, and you don't know who to turn to or what to do with what you're feeling. The ones who reach out, you really feel like they care. They probably truly do. They probably truly want you to heal and be happy again, and not just funny-happy. But when you really open up about the true affects of grief, and they start to see it's not a quick fix or simple solution to make you funny again, they begin to trickle away, needing some air after all the doom and gloom.

I can't say that I blame them. And maybe it's too much to expect people will stay invested for the duration of healing. It's time consuming to be that friend to someone in pain, and not fun. It's a committment. It's tough for them to stomach, to watch a friend grieve, and to deal with the affects of being the friend who is there by your side. I can understand the non-appeal of that. It's not a glorious job to volunteer to undertake, by any means. But they don't know the half of the situation and what's hard about it. And I don't think they understand the effects of what it does when they decide they've had enough and they leave a friend in pain. I can understand not wanting to be involved as a helper anymore after awhile, but when they leave I have to deal with the hurt of their rejection and absence in addition to the hard stuff I'm already dealing with.

It's hard and likely mostly unrewarding to deal with grief that isn't your own. But I'd say it's a bit tougher to deal with the death of a loved one, and feel like you have to do that alone as you watch the people you consider your 'rocks' fall away around you. As you watch them go, you begin to feel like a burden, like the sad friend that isn't a novelty anymore. Just a drag, because you aren't 'fixed', yet. You wonder what friends are for and why they don't stick when you really need them. Admittedly grief brings out behavior that isn't pleasant for others to be around. I've done a lot that I'm not proud of, in dealing with my grief. But on top of the grief, it becomes tougher to deal with all of it when you also experience the loss of friends who can't commit for the long haul when you really, truly need them in the middle of the worst times. You feel like you're losing everyone, starting with the death that began the whole twisted turn of events. You wonder if anyone will be left when you begin to feel whole again.

It's not like I asked for this. I feel punished by it everyday. People leave because of who I am now, what I've become, how I act differently than before, yet it wasn't my choice, and I can't go back. I don't get to say "Enough!" and move onto something else when I'm sick of it. I was sick of it a long time ago. Yet the suffering goes beyond just missing her and having to completely re-learn who I am now and how to go on minus this person I knew and loved for 21 years. Once I deal with just that part of it, I'm still forced to deal with it everyday as I come into contact with new people who are just beginning to know me during and post-grieving. Or when I think about and miss the people who were once my best friends, but who now seem to prefer not to be involved with me much, since I got sad and harder to be around than when I was fun and easy to care about. I feel like I've disappointed everyone because I can't be who they liked before. It's just not who I am anymore, although not by choice. And it seems there's not much I can do to help them see me as someone besides the sad friend they once knew. I'm actually not so bad now. Just not quite the same as before.

Losing someone becomes a part of your personal profile, much like a criminal record, I'd imagine. It's something that affects you everyday for the rest of your life, in ways that you'd never know until they happen. You can't shake it, you can't avoid it. You have to learn how to remake your life so that you can deal with it and still be happy, successful, and not bittered by it. You have to resign to accepting that you are not who you were, and that it will take some serious work and help to be someone who can carry on now. It takes a lot of prayer and faith. But even with all of that, one of the hardest parts is dealing with the people, coming and going. You want relationships, but you are unsure of people, old and new. Your confidence is gone, because you are unsure of who you are now and how to be with others. You feel like your reputation preceeds you as the 'freaky' girl with the dead sister, or the girl who 'used to' be fun til her sister died. You're certain the friends who left you during the worst times probably don't want you back now, and even if they do you don't know which 'you' they'd want. You're not sure who to trust. You never know how people will react to something you say or do now, and you always hope the people you call friends and family will react better than the ones who don't know you. Each reaction from anyone, good or bad, leaves a mark. Although it seems to hurt more from the friends and family you'd expect to see you through the grief, and love you more than just react. Not to say that everyone has left me. I've got some keepers. But many have wandered off and created space, including many of the ones that really mattered to me. It's unfortunate that the things we deal with in life end up driving away the people we wish we could hold close when it matters.

It's much easier to read, write, and talk funny stuff. It's easy for me to be funny. I prefer to be funny and silly. Some of my funniest times truly come in the midst of pain, because that's the first place I go: the easy fun place. I've got plenty of fans and friends when I'm an entertainer, keeping people laughing and the circumstances light, fun, and simple. It's when people become afraid of what the 'sad' girl might do or say that they get skittish and keep their distance.

Sometimes, life isn't easy, or funny. Yet I still have things to say and write and talk about. Things that are valuable in knowing me, besides my ability to entertain. Writing about the fun stuff is really fun for me, and I love that. I'm truly a quirky person at heart. But the real beauty I find in expressing things through words is describing myself and what I've learned in life, past the funny part. I haven't lost the funny stuff people enjoy. I think people fear that when the funny stuff takes a break for awhile, it won't come back, and in its place will be an angry, sad, bitter person who sucks the life out of everyone. For me, the funny is not gone. It takes a break sometimes, but I will always be a funny person. When the funny is hard to see sometimes, it's likely because I've gained some perspective on top of it. And even some joy that I didn't have before.

What I write and talk about may not always be funny, but it's valuable. Even if I'm rewarded with silence and stares and uncertainty, with few people left interested in hearing what I have to say or in knowing me now, I find great fulfillment in writing and talking about it. It's tough sometimes, but it's nice, too. The value I find in writing about the un-funny is that I've learned through it, I've overcome the messiness that allowed me to come to a deeper understanding of something, and I appreciate parts of life that can't always be found in funny. I've still got a lot to work through, and probably always will. But I've reached a better place, where I even find the healing and happiness that people once desired for me at the start of my grief, even though many of them aren't around much to share in that with me now. I can breathe a bit again, and turn my experiences into words for people to read, and that's nice for me. That's a huge accomplishment. Hopefully I can express what I've learned and found in words that communicate the value in it. Even if it isn't as fun to read or hear as the fun stuff.

C.T.