Something New
People who know me for even a short while know I’m not the best at trying new things - and this doesn’t just mean new foods.
Change has always been hard for me, even if it’s the kind of change I want or actively seek. It’s like when I moved to Chicago - I wanted to move for a long time, I researched the heck out of everything, but I was still highly anxious when the time came to actually move to a new state and start a new job.
Even smaller changes can be tough for me. I moved a block and a half recently, and even though I was counting down the days until I’d be living in a much nicer place, I was still anxious about the details until I was completely settled in.
I’m also the same way in therapy. My therapist likes introducing new techniques to me, but if I’m having a hard time, it’s difficult to work on something new instead of doing something familiar - even if it doesn’t work as well.
One of the challenges I’ve set for myself during this grieving process is to explore different kinds of therapy. In addition to talking with my therapist regularly, I have also been looking through a variety of books to get advice about how to deal with some of the challenges I’m facing. And some of the things are, well, let’s just say they’re a bit out of my wheelhouse.
I recently started a writing course, my first in several years, and I was expecting it to be like writing down answers to the questions my therapist asks me. This is a grief writing course, so I knew I would be writing about Nana and my thoughts about losing her, but I went in with some assumptions that I didn’t realize would make it difficult to do the writing as assigned.
I assumed that I would be writing about what happened in the real world and the feelings I’m experiencing, rather than trying to tap into my rather depleted imagination that I’m mostly using for the nastier kinds of “what ifs” at this point. I didn’t think I’d be responding to other people’s stories about grief and trying to work myself into their metaphors. And most of all, I didn’t think I’d be spreading out the main section of the New York Times on the floor one evening to help me write a poem.
I’ve never liked poetry much, so I wasn’t really inclined to participate - but just like when life throws other things at me that make me feel uncomfortable, I try to still engage. I spread out the pages and followed the instructions to read words and phrases at random until I found something that stuck out to me, and then highlight those words and use them for the basis of a poem.
Even though this was a new kind of therapeutic work, I still found it helpful once I pushed through the uncomfortableness. I looked through environmentally based stories about rhinos getting their horns filed and world news stories about families urging their young ones to not become martyrs. And somehow, these stories and others started to turn into a poem, because Nana used to love the New York Times. My family used the fact that she could read and understand the stories at age 94 as a barometer of her health, and the fact that I was now reading it and she wasn’t even alive felt very poignant.
I’m not sure if I’d want to incorporate poetry into my regular therapeutic practice, but grieving for Nana has taught me that, when some situations feel far too huge to handle, it might mean that a new technique is necessary - even though I still struggle with trying new things. If I don’t have the resources to tackle feelings that feel too big, there might be something else out there that can teach me how to process things in a healthier way.
POEM:
I used the New York Times, because, like me, it’s something
you love(d)
when you were alive and well
you went “peacefully” but
it’s a mess and
we are absolutely going to suffer from this
I wish I could see your ghost
so I would know you’re never really dead
but even with seeing so little, I know too much
to believe I could have any control
of the pacing and direction of this grief
and my life without you
with challenges, a longer journey, shying, shrinking
I hope you are somewhere you can be at peace
and able to read the New York Times
but at the same time
I need you alive, not dead
Michelle Cohen, a writer in the Chicago area, was diagnosed with OCD at age 3. She hopes to educate others about her condition and end the stigma against mental illness.