The Beauty of Grief

For days my sister has been staying with me, as a zombie, forcing herself to move through each hour denying the corroding pain yet to be tended. Frustration. Sensitivity to criticism. I felt the stalking presence of a sorrow desperate to be unleashed, and for days I have been waiting.
Before I left my parents I decided to dismiss the burden of being caregiver and counselor to her. I would simply provide an environment of respect and freedom for her to do with as she pleases. If I created an atmosphere where she could feel safe, maybe whatever processing or knowledge she needed would be made clear without my tampering. I hoped the visit would at least supply her with a different perspective on how one can live (without constant yelling, away from the physical reminders that triggered her breakdown).
We came home from a visit with a friend. She mentioned having stomach pains and headed for the next room to hide. Noticing her desire to escape, I jumped at the opportunity to finally talk with her alone. I walked unexpectedly into a hug when I entered the doorway. I asked what was wrong. She described the pains in her stomach. Anxiety. The last time she had an attack around me she utilized distraction as her method of coping. Her attempts to push her feelings aside were vocalized by a distinct monotone moan that only proved her efforts were not amounting to any relief. The moment I heard those same moans begin during this incident, I defaulted to my grief training. I encouraged her to embrace those feelings rather than continue to suppress them.
Little by little, sobs echoed in my ear. Still locked in embrace, she acknowledged the feelings that were rising to the surface by name: frustration, anxiety, sadness. At last! I thought. She’s finally crying. I wasn’t necessarily waiting for her to cry, but rather to be honest with herself about what she was experiencing. In my experience supporting others, this was a major indication of progress (however that might be defined when referring to a process that tends to be cyclical).
I continued to encourage her to just allow the tears to flow, to try not to hold back as she rested on my shoulder. She explained how difficult it has been dealing with the overwhelming fear of “losing it.” A common symptom of panic disorder is a fear of losing control or subsequent attacks. For her, this fear was stifling her need to grieve. When I say grief, I mean a process in which the individual allows whatever they are feeling to be expressed freely for the purpose of releasing energy, sharing, arriving at any conclusions, coping with the loss, and questioning what causes the concerning behavior: the manifestations of the pain or fear that exists at the core of the problem. For her, guilt and betrayal weighed heavily on her conscious.
As we discussed her fears and hesitations about talking to others (particularly counselors or professionals), she unfolded the story that landed her in the hospital. She spoke about the pain of being betrayed by her most trusted support system. She spoke of desperation and shame about how the situation erupted out of her control. She spoke of isolation. Yet she didn’t know she would do anything differently, pitted against herself by her own understanding for those involved. Dying for justice.
All at once she exploded into a rage-induced sob, dropping to the floor by my feet. Droning wails spilled out, self-accepting humility. No holding back. She simply roared.
I caressed her back while she sat bowed against the floor in prayer pose to reassure her that it was okay to exist exactly as she was in that moment. But my heart crumbled for my little sister. Her cries of pain stung what I could imagine being my very soul. The tension aroused by my protective urges melted away to sheer empathy. I felt the betrayal and guilt familiarized by my own experiences and joined in her grief. It was a beautiful exchange. At long last, I had met my little sister.