A few weeks ago, I revisited the classic '90s film "Singles." (And yes, it IS a classic and I will fight anyone who says otherwise...) There's a moment in the film that has stuck with me all of these years, since I very first saw it, and maybe it's the reason I love the film so much: Bridget Fonda's character Janet has been clinging to her very non-committal boyfriend, Cliff (played by the impeccable Matt Dillon), even though he literally brushes her off of him and tells her that he's seeing other women. She's so desperate to hang on to him that she visits a plastic surgeon to become more of Cliff's "type." Friends and even the plastic surgeon try to urge her towards the reality that maybe Cliff just isn't for her but she's deaf to it all - until, she has that moment. She's hanging out with him and out of nowhere, she thinks "What am I doing here? I don't have to be here!"
And just like that, she leaves. She finally realizes that she has agency in her life and she claims it.
I love this scene so much, and it pops into my head periodically. It's, hopefully, very relatable. And after serious trauma or grief, I think it's almost inevitable.
There's a weird sort of reckoning that comes after loss. Maybe we realize how short life really is, or maybe we just don't have the mental energy to spend on trivial things. It's probably both and a whole lot more. I know that personally, I just couldn't deal with most of what used to seem important and that has only become stronger over time.
I've mentioned on here that I used to be a workaholic before Bill died but I don't think I ever recognized it as problematic. I was teased by friends that I never had only one job. From the time I was 14, I always had at least a full time job while going to school, or a full time job and multiple side jobs, or some unholy combination of all that. I remember waking up on the subway more than once, not being able to immediately recall whether I was heading to work, class, or a side gig. During one particularly insane time, I was teaching 5 in-person classes at one college, 2 online classes at a different college, and working at a wine bar on the weekends. This kind of insanity continued for years - until Bill and Klaus died.
And then? I just felt like... why? Why did I do that all of the time? It wasn't just the money, obviously - there was something deeply rooted in me that felt the need to prove how much I could take, over and over and over again. But, ultimately, to what end? What did I prove?
Working so much just proved that I was willing to spend more time with colleagues than I was with my nuclear family. And no, it was absolutely not worth it.
I've attempted to change back towards that crazy workaholic during these last five years but I can't. Losing them both kicked me into my "Wait a minute - what am I DOING?" moment. The self-imposed obligations disappeared, and there's no love lost on my end.
This sort of reckoning can happen with relationships too. Since grief truly does change our address books, very often we think "WHY am I investing so much in this relationship?" It applies to friends, family members, colleagues, even future dates. Loss often provides sharp clarity about who is supporting us, who we want to support, and which relationships are worth emotional investment.
Profound loss is, of course, awful. There's no sugarcoating that. It pushes us into spaces we never wanted to experience. But I do think we can learn who we really are, which in turn helps us see others as they really are. The grim reality we face after loss makes a whole lot else lose its shine, but often we realize that the shine was never real to begin with. And while the ancillary losses might sting at first - after all, who wants to feel more loss? - it can be very freeing. We don't actually have to placate anyone to keep the peace. We don't have to just go along with things because that's the way it's always been. And we certainly don't have to stick out situations that are taking us away from what truly matters to us. We don't HAVE to do anything. We can just learn to be ourselves as fully and as meaningfully as possible.
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