Grief is a Body Language
On Getting Used to the New Reflexes
Listen to me instead:
I’ve always been good at hiding my sadness. My physical stature makes me a hide-and-go-seek liability. At 6’3’ 235lbs, there aren’t many places in the house my daughter can’t find me. Emotionally though?! My big gap-toothed smile, eloquence, and optimism can misdirect even my closest friends best attempts to find my sadness. This year, however, my body hasn’t been listening to me. My poker face doesn’t work like it used to. I’ve said for years that grief is a language, but this year I haven’t been able to shake just how much it’s a body language. The closer I get to the 10-year anniversary of Sam’s passing, the more my bothered body won’t let me hide my sadness like it used to.
My Bothered Body
It’s not the memories that bother me the most; it’s the reflexes. The new ones. The ones I didn’t learn. These ones aren’t remnants of bad habits that stuck around, they were imposed on me. They leaned their shoulder in and burst through my front door, and regardless of how much I protest, they stick around. I haven’t been to a Longhorn Steakhouse since the day I walked out the door and screamed into my iPhone “He’s Dead?!” Not that I was frequent customer before Sam died, but I do remember seeing the signs often and not minding. The Longhorn Steakhouse logo didn’t cause any action or reaction. No reflex. They were benign. Since April 14, 2015 though, I find myself doing everything I can to avoid making eye contact with the Longhorn Steakhouse logo. Highway signs on roadtrips are the worst. You don’t realize just how many Longhorn Steakhouses there are until feel your stomach turn with each glance at one. You secretly hope that one day they’d just go out of business, so you can make the long roadtrips in peace.
My hurt body
It’s not the memories that hurt the most; it’s the reflexes. The new ones. Memories can be controlled. They can be reined in and counterbalanced. When a flood of bad ones come rushing in, it doesn’t take much to build a dam of good ones that stop them from drowning my peace. When they take over and I don’t have the strength, I can get someone on the phone to audibly give me spoken word and I can see new memories with my ears. But the reflexes don’t have any such remedy. I can’t sit down at a restaurant and get a call from my mom without my heart losing its rhythm. One look at the word “Mom” flashing across an iPhone when I’m in a restaurant, and my heart forgets it’s beating inside the chest of a Black man. She starts dancing like white folks doing the cha cha slide at a white wedding—my steady predictable rhythm is off and never quite catches its beat. A decade of prayers to God, talks with therapists, getting doctorates in grief, storytelling from coast to coast, and writing books doesn’t change that. That new reflex has signed a long-term lease in my bones, and I don’t know if it’ll ever leave. Oh how I wish my body would just go back to the way it was.
My discomforted body
It’s not the memories that cause the most discomfort; it’s the reflexes. The new ones. I no longer need a clock or a calendar remind me it’s Sam’s 9th birthday since he passed as we near the 10th anniversary of his death. It’s not the crying that’s most shocking. Honestly, at this point, over a decade in, the tears still come, but they don’t intrude. When they knock at the door of my tear ducts, I know it’s them without looking out the peephole. No one else passes through those doors at those hours. The tears about Sam are predictable. They know where the house key is and freely come and go. That’s not the reflex I hate the most. It’s the fatigue. I hate the fatigue. The short-temper. The mental exhaustion and lack of focus. I don’t want to go to the gym, so I don’t. I don’t want to eat right, so I don’t. I don’t want to do meaningful work, so I don’t. I don’t want to be patient with my wife and daughter, but I try my hardest. I fail harder. But I apologize even harder and at this point everyone understands. They brace for it. We’re all aware. We don’t use many words during this time of the year, but everyone reinforces their armor. They know it’s more of a battle than it should be. It’s the most physical part of the year—in a good way.
My friends know that I don’t need words during these four weeks. I need hugs. Lots of them. I don’t need stories of Sam. Every other time of the year the stories are welcome; however, during this time of the year, I can’t really process them or much of anything. I just need other bodies to hold me. The warmth is a gentle reminder I’m still alive. Their beating hearts next to mine help me regain my rhythm.
My disturbed body
It’s not the memories that disturb me the most; it’s the reflexes. The new ones. The I don’t give a f*cks that can I can’t keep in side. I used to have more restraint—I was able to put up with more of the bullsh*t…not the extreme stuff, just the regular everyday bullsh*t that fertilizes the soil of ordinary events. It’s the stuff that everyone steps in and only the Larry Davids of the world (the unashamed *ssholes) make a big fuss about. I no longer have the restraint I once did. No longer can I hold my eye rolls in. I talk to myself more, constantly giving my body etiquette lessons of what polite people do and don’t do. But he no longer listens to me. He doesn’t speak the language of logic. He won’t be told to stay in place, he must held. He won’t be guilted into moving towards someone in love after an offense, a warm hand must guide him there. He won’t voluntarily tell why he can’t stop sobbing at the dentist office, he must be gently held and patted on the back until he burps honesty.
I wish my bothered body would go back to the way it was. I don’t imagine it will. My sleeves have been wet all week, because I don’t usually carry tissue with me unless I have a cold. Maybe these new reflexes are here to stay. And if they are, maybe my best next step is to keep Kleenex as an ongoing expense instead of a seasonal one.
I’ve been so sad lately.
Lately…I’ve been grateful that I’ve been so bad at hiding it.
Peace
So many triggers. thank you for naming it.
I never thought of grief itself showing up as a body language. That's such a thought. I had a moment where I was anxious yet conscious enough to ask the question why and wondered if it showed up in my body language, wondering if my body was telling on me what's going on internally.
I never thought about grief having that same sort of display. I been sad alot lately myself and it have slipped my mind that grief exists. I'm still new to the language. But the concept that grief can effect you to the point of showing up in your body language is so baffling to me.
Thanks for sharing this.