Welcome to the “Hello, From the Other Side” series, a (non)advice column from someone who's been there and (currently) lives to tell the story. This is one person’s perspective to help shed light on the grief experience and to help others feel less alone.
Please note that I am not a therapist. I don’t have any official expertise, but I do have experience. Lots and lots of experience.
Q: Was running away after Brad’s death the right choice for you? I’m feeling called to do the same — to leave it all behind — my life, my grief, everything. But also I’m scared to make a move and my friends don’t think it’s a good idea. What do you think? Is it ok to run away? - Wannabe On the Run
Hello, Wannabe -
They say not to do anything drastic after experiencing such a loss — don’t move, don’t switch jobs, don’t spend your money, don’t change. But I’m starting to believe that maybe “they” (whoever they are) have never actually experienced loss and that maybe “they” are sometimes full of shit.
When you go through a profound loss, everything changes.
Everything changes.
Everything that was previously familiar suddenly becomes foreign. Your home, your social circle, your job, your routine. None of it makes sense anymore. It feels like waking up in a stranger’s bed. The smells are different. The sounds are different. Everything is different.
For me, the easiest way to cope with this feeling of unfamiliarity was to physically insert myself in new unfamiliar situations. To deal with the unwanted change, I needed to continue experiencing change (change of scenery, change of location, change of people). That meant getting in my car and spending two months driving across the country and another month traveling abroad. The best chance I had of moving forward in life without Brad was to (temporarily) leave the place we had spent 10 years living together.
People may have thought my decision was irrational. They worried about me because they wanted to keep me safe from future pain. At home, they could wrap themselves around me like a protective layer of bubble wrap.
But my friends — and most likely your friends — didn’t understand my grief or what it felt like to want to crawl out of your own skin just to feel something — anything — else.
Staying is safe. And safety in grief is a perfectly fine place to be.
But it’s not the answer for all of us.
Running away allowed me the opportunity to deal with this unwanted change on my own terms. It was time away from the closet filled with Brad’s clothes. And the bar where we would grab drinks after work. And the river where we would take morning walks with our dog, Dune. It was time away from the eyes of pity and stares of concern. More than anything, running away allowed me the time to grieve.
Which brings me to my next point: It’s really hard to outrun your grief.
Grief was a stowaway, my fellow outlaw, riding alongside me in the passenger seat (and sometimes taking over the driver’s seat). Grief was in the music blaring from the radio when a familiar song came on. It was at the roadside cafe, when the man behind the counter looked at my wedding ring and asked why I was traveling solo. It was in the sunrise that peaked over the mountain tops. It was in the wind, in the stars, in the muddy earth that covered my bare feet as I washed my tears in the lake.
My grief was everywhere.
You can run away from life, but I imagine in running away (and freeing yourself from the distractions back home), you’ll run head first into your grief.
And that’s ok, and maybe even good (I just want you to be prepared).
For me, running away was hard. Really hard.
At times I was scared and uncomfortable and really fucking sad. I was lonely, so very lonely. But something unexpectedly beautiful also happened during that time. Without the pressure of expectations or outside influences, I stripped down to the barest version of myself and began to learn who I was and what I wanted, not as part of Brad and Dana, but as me (and yeah, that was hard too). I threw myself into the unknown and came out the other side, changed.
Still grieving, of course, but changed too.
So yes, running away was the right choice for me. “They” (your well-intended friends who want to keep you safe/society/those who have never walked in your shoes) all say not to do anything drastic, but if your heart is pulling you to change, then change. If it’s telling you to go, then go.
This is your one life, however messy and ruined it feels right now. It’s up to you how to keep living it.
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This is such a strong piece, Dana!
And it emphasizes the fact that there is not just one way to deal with the shit reality of losing your partner in the midst of life. For me it has been a mish mash of everything.
I have run away and I have stayed in the same way ...
For a long time I thought I could run away from the pain by just keep going and getting shit done.
I also thought I needed to clear out the reminders of D being gone.
I donated his clothes within a month.
I cleaned out drawers and cupboards and I hauled out everything that reminded me of him being sick.
I cut his hot tub in pieces and threw away - and I made the bathroom mine.
And yet, for months I felt as if I was an intruder of my own house.
I went back and forth between obsessing thoughts of moving and a panicking mind of wanting to keep everything as it was.
No matter what I did my heart or my mind couldn't rest.
Losing D changed everything - and it made me doubt everything that had ever been me. Things I used to laugh about did not amuse me anymore.
I felt like an alien among people whom I, in before loss life, had seen as my rock.
When I looked myself in the mirror, I saw the reflection of someone whom I no longer knew or could relate to.
I wanted to tear everything down and rebuild, but I had no tools for it.
However, while the months moved on - (and now years), I realised that the feeling of change doesn't lie in where I live or what things I keep - or not keep.
I can't run away from grief or the missing.
Where I live doesn't change any of that.
What counts is what I do with the life I've been left to live on my own - while being true to my heart.
I think that running away can mean any of many different things, it all depends on your perspective. I was unable to physically run away from my life, despite how badly I wanted to and sometimes still do. But, I can say that in another sense, I did run away from the old life that was. This honestly includes friends, places, things, and dreams. I have a much shorter list of people I chat with, and I no longer participate in activities that I did before her passing. These changes provided my brain a sense of change, and by starting something new, a challenge to be able to put my thoughts aside for a little bit. Grief still follows, but its different when compared to something that was shared between us. I knew that I could not run away, in a literal sense, as everything I was trying to get away from would be right beside me, waiting. It was a hard pill to swallow, and even harder work to navigate. I am a little bit over three years since her passing, still in the same house, but with it reimagined in the light of my now current life. I live with a malamute so decorative stuff has been put away, and the living space changed to accommodate the two of us playing. If she were to pop in, she would not recognize this as the home that we made, and I actually can't remember exactly what the house was like before. Despite not running away physically, I have managed to "run away" in a way that has worked out for me, mostly.