Ongoing Grief Quotes

A lot of things are inherent in life -change, birth, death, aging, illness, accidents, calamities, and losses of all kinds- but these events don't have to be the cause of ongoing suffering. Yes, these events cause grief and sadness, but grief and sadness pass, like everything else, and are replaced with other experiences. The ego, however, clings to negative thoughts and feelings and, as a result, magnifies, intensifies, and sustains those emotions while the ego overlooks the subtle feelings of joy, gratitude, excitement, adventure, love, and peace that come from Essence. If we dwelt on these positive states as much as we generally dwell on our negative thoughts and painful emotions, our lives would be transformed.

The other thing I know now, is that we survive grief merely and surely by outlasting it. The ongoing fact of the narrative eclipses the heartbreak within. A deal that seems to be the price we pay for getting to hold on to our beloved dead.

I was deluded, and I knew it. Worse: my love for Pippa was muddied-up below the waterline with my mother, with my mother's death, with losing my mother and not being able to get her back. All that blind, infantile hunger to save and be saved, to repeat the past and make it different, had somehow attached itself, ravenously, to her. There was an instability in it, a sickness. I was seeing things that weren't there. I was only one step away from some trailer park loner stalking a girl he'd spotted in the mall. For the truth of it was: Pippa and I saw each other maybe twice a year; we e-mailed and texted, though with no great regularity; when she was in town we loaned each other books and went to the movies; we were friends; nothing more. My hopes for a relationship with her were wholly unreal, whereas my ongoing misery, and frustration, were an all-too-horrible reality. Was groundless, hopeless, unrequited obsession any way to waste the rest of my life?

A Belgian journalist, struggling to describe the scene, had said that it resembled a cross between a permanent mass wake, an ongoing grad night for at least a dozen subcultures unheard of before the disaster, the black market cafes of occupied Paris, and Goya's idea of a dance party (assuming Goya had been Japanese and smoked freebase methamphetamine, which along with endless quantities of alcohol was clearly the Western World's substance of choice). It was, the Belgian said, as though the city, in its convolsion and grief, had spontaneously and necessarily generated this hidden pocket universe of the soul, its few unbroken windows painted over with black rubber aquarium paint. There would be no view of the ruptured city. As the reconstruction began around it, it had already become a benchmark in Tokyo's psychic history, an open secret, an urban legend.

The grief psychologist William Worden takes into account these questions by replacing stages with tasks of mourning. In his fourth task, the goal is to integrate the loss into your life and create an ongoing connection with the person who died while also finding a way to continue living.

their souls never leave you. You may feel like your relationship is over, but you actually have a new kind of relationship with your loved one, thanks to an ongoing bond that will never end. It isn’t a physical relationship anymore, but a spiritual and soul bond relationship that lasts forever.

Many survivors of relational and other forms of early life trauma are deeply troubled and often struggle with feelings of anger, grief, alienation, distrust, confusion, low self-esteem, loneliness, shame, and self-loathing. They seem to be prisoners of their emotions, alternating between being flooded by intense emotional and physiological distress related to the trauma or its consequences and being detached and unable to express or feel any emotion at all - alternations that are the signature posttraumatic pattern. These occur alongside or in conjunction with other common reactions and symptoms (e.g., depression, anxiety, and low self-esteem) and their secondary manifestations. Those with complex trauma histories often have diffuse identity issues and feel like outsiders, different from other people, whom they somehow can't seem to get along with, fit in with, or get close to, even when they try. Moreover, they often feel a sense of personal contamination and that no one understands or can help them. Quite frequently and unfortunately, both they and other people (including the professionals they turn to for help) do misunderstand them, devalue their strengths, or view their survival adaptations through a lens of pathology (e.g., seeing them as "demanding", "overdependent and needy", "aggressive", or as having borderline personality). Yet, despite all, many individuals with these histories display a remarkable capacity for resilience, a sense of morality and empathy for others, spirituality, and perseverance that are highly admirable under the circumstances and that create a strong capacity for survival. Three broad categories of survivorship, with much overlap between them, can be discerned: 1. Those who have successfully overcome their past and whose lives are healthy and satisfying. Often, individuals in this group have had reparative experiences within relationships that helped them to cope successfully. 2. Those whose lives are interrupted by recurring posttraumatic reactions (often in response to life events and experiences) that periodically hijack them and their functioning for various periods of time. 3. Those whose lives are impaired on an ongoing basis and who live in a condition of posttraumatic decline, even to the point of death, due to compromised medical and mental health status or as victims of suicide of community violence, including homicide.

Pain and grief have been kept buried for ages, bred in secrecy and shame, wrapped by an ongoing conspiracy of smiles and well-being. Pain and grief are most healing and ecstatic emotions. Yes, sure, they can be hard, yet what makes them most devastating is the perverted idea that they are wrong, that they need to be hidden and fixed. The greatest perversion I can conceive is the idea that illness and pain are a sign that there is something wrong in our life, that we have unresolved issues, that we have made mistakes. In this world everyone is bound to get ill, experience pain and die. The greatest gift I can give to myself and the world is the joyful acceptance of this. Today I want to be real, I will not hide my pain as well as my happiness. I will not care if my gloomy face or desperate words cause concern or embarrassment in others. I do not need be fed with reassuring words about the beauty of life. The beauty of life resides in the full acceptance of All That Is.

Instead of giving a timetable to grief and how we relate to the death, an icon or a shrine accepts that grief and death are still here with us even now because we simply have ongoing bonds with the deceased. They will forever be a part of us and instead of trying to "heal" and find decathexis, we must learn to adjust because love has this amazing way of living on past death, in both grief and joy. You aren't sick with grief; you're healthy with grief. And you don't need closure; grief will always be the in-between, and that's okay.

The charity model encourages us to feel good about ourselves by “giving back.” Convincing us that we have done enough if we do a little volunteering or posting online is a great way to keep us in our place. Keeping people numb to the suffering in the world—and their own suffering—is essential to keeping things as they are. In fact, things are really terrifying and enraging right now, and feeling more rage, fear, sadness, grief, and despair may be appropriate. Those feelings may help us be less appeased by false solutions, and stir us to pursue ongoing collective action for change.

But, the heart of the definition and recovery lies not in the other person—no matter how much we believe it does. It lies in ourselves, in the ways we have let other people’s behavior affect us and in the ways we try to affect them: the obsessing, the controlling, the obsessive “helping,” caretaking, low self-worth bordering on self-hatred, self-repression, abundance of anger and guilt, peculiar dependency on peculiar people, attraction to and tolerance for the bizarre, other-centeredness that results in abandonment of self, communication problems, intimacy problems, and an ongoing whirlwind trip through the five-stage grief process.

Approaching sorrow, however, requires enormous psychic strength. For us to tolerate the rigors of engaging the images, emotions, memories, and dreams that arise in times of grief, we need to fortify our interior ground. This is done through developing a practice that we sustain over time. Any form will do—writing, drawing, meditation, prayer, dance, or something else—as long as we continue to show up and maintain our effort. A practice offers ballast, something to help us hold steady in difficult times. This deepens our capacity to hold the vulnerable emotions surrounding loss without being overwhelmed by them. Grief work is not passive: it implies an ongoing practice of deepening, attending and listening. It is an act of devotion, rooted in love and compassion. (See the resources at the end of this book for more on developing the practice of compassion.)

So, here is my definition of a codependent: A codependent person is one who has let another person’s behavior affect him or her, and who is obsessed with controlling that person’s behavior. The other person might be a child, an adult, a lover, a spouse, a brother, a sister, a grandparent, a parent, a client, or a best friend. He or she could be an alcoholic, a drug addict, a mentally or physically ill person, a normal person who occasionally has sad feelings, or one of the people mentioned earlier. But, the heart of the definition and recovery lies not in the other person—no matter how much we believe it does. It lies in ourselves, in the ways we have let other people’s behavior affect us and in the ways we try to affect them: the obsessing, the controlling, the obsessive “helping,” caretaking, low self-worth bordering on self-hatred, self-repression, abundance of anger and guilt, peculiar dependency on peculiar people, attraction to and tolerance for the bizarre, other-centeredness that results in abandonment of self, communication problems, intimacy problems, and an ongoing whirlwind trip through the five-stage grief process

Memories are precious, but they are part of the past. The things we treasure, whether a facet of a memory, a particular aspect of a loved one, or a tangible talisman, we carry with us—always. They continue to inform us about our loved ones and remind us that life is ongoing, that we can still learn from those who have died and can still feel their presence. The smell of Old Spice will forever be my grandfather. My bony wrists and the veins in my hands are remnants of my grandmother. These small things are treasures that will never lose their value and cannot be taken from me.

Holding on to the past is different from being grateful for it. If we view our present lives as but the charred remains of what was, something dies inside of us. And what was given to us by our loved ones, what we learned from them, and what we are able to carry with us in the embers are left to grow cold. We alone are able to keep the flames that were ignited by our relationships burning. To do this, we need to guard the sparks that remain and breathe new life into them by being open to the ongoing possibility of connection and happiness.

My mother and I were on a plane. Before we left I talked with Elf. She didn't talk at all. I told her things would be okay, truly, that I needed her, that I understood her, that I loved her, that I'd miss her, that I'd be back for her, that being together in Toronto for a while would be amazing, that Nora was really looking forward to it too, that I understood that just because she didn't want to live didn't mean that she necessarily wanted to die it's just that that's sort of how that one goes, that she wanted to die the way she'd lived, with grace and dignity, that I needed her to be patient, to fight a little longer, to hold on, to know she was loved, to know I wanted to help her, that I would help her, that I needed to do some stuff, that mom and I had to go to Aunt Tina's funeral in Vancouver, that I'd be back, that she'd stay with me in Toronto for a while, a total break, that Nic was here now, back in Winnipeg, that he'd see her every day, that I had to go, that I had to know she'd be okay while I was gone, that I would bow down before her suffering with compassion, that she could control her life, that I understood that pain is sometimes psychic, not only physical, that she wanted nothing more than to end it and to sleep forever, that for her life was over but that for me it was still ongoing and that an aspect of it was trying to save her, that the notion of saving her was one that we didn't agree on, that I was willing to do whatever she wanted me to do but only if it was absolutely true that there were no other doors to find, to push against or storm because if there were I'd break every bone in my body running up against that fucking door repeatedly, over and over and over and over.

The most important expression for understanding mercy is hesed, which means unmerited loving kindness, friendliness, favor, and also divine grace and mercy.7 Hesed, therefore, goes beyond mere emotion and grief at human deprivation; it means God’s free and gracious turning toward the human person with care. It concerns a concept of relationship, which characterizes not only a single action, but rather an ongoing attitude and posture.8 Applied to God, the concept expresses an unexpected and unmerited gift of God’s grace—transcending every relationship of reciprocal fidelity—that exceeds all human expectations and bursts

Though the loved one has died, the memory, the sense of the person’s presence, has not—nor the possibility, after a while, of taking continuing joy not only in the reminiscences from the past, but in the extension of the person’s spirit into our ongoing lives.

You are loved, and your purpose is to love.” — Marianne Williamson In grief we realize that this is the catch-22 of life. Love is the most joyous and meaningful experience there is. Love gives our lives purpose. But love’s conjoined twin is grief. If we love, we will eventually grieve. So what is there to do but continue loving? When we express our ongoing love for the person who died, we are mourning and moving toward healing. When we embrace the love of others, we are accepting the balm of grace and healing. If we shun or hide ourselves from love, on the other hand, we are choosing to die while we are alive. Love, then, is not just the best answer—it is the only answer.

Grief, when it comes, is nothing we expect it to be. It was not what I felt when my parents died: my father died a few days short of his eighty-fifth birthday and my mother a month short of her ninety-first, both after some years of increasing debility. What I felt in each instance was sadness, loneliness (the loneliness of the abandoned child of whatever age), regret for time gone by, for things unsaid, for my inability to share or even in any real way to acknowledge, at the end, the pain and helplessness and physical humiliation they each endured. I understood the inevitability of each of their deaths. I had been expecting (fearing, dreading, anticipating) those deaths all my life. They remained, when they did occur, distanced, at a remove from the ongoing dailiness of my life.

know what we have left. This is an ongoing activity. Don't rush it. Take your time. Dedicate a notebook to writing down everything you have, everything you did get, everything you have left. No matter what your situation is—if you're in prison, in a hospital, in hospice—no matter who or where you are, you have something left and probably more than you know.

This is an ongoing journey. The waves of grief and loss ebb and flow, as will your healing path.

Caregivers who anticipate ongoing contact after placement may be better able to relinquish their role than caregivers who anticipate that "good-bye" will be forever." ... "Former caregivers may experience grief and guilt because they are incapable of providing permanent adequate care, or they may feel anger and resentment if they had wanted but were not allowed to continue parenting the child. Even the birth parent(s) who voluntarily terminates guardianship may experience considerable ambivalence by the time of placement. Birth or foster parents who are struggling with their own needs may have difficulty meeting [the childs'] needs during the transition period and at the time of placement. In cases such as these, it is important to have sensitive professionals available to help the former caregivers identify and express their feelings about the separation and support the toddler's transition.

August 19 Godly grief produces a repentance not to be regretted and leading to salvation, but worldly grief produces death. 2 Corinthians 7:10 I remember a time in my college years when I was deeply puzzled over ongoing feelings of guilt concerning a sin for which I had asked forgiveness many, many times. I never felt like I was out from under the weight and burden of it. Years later, God pried open my eyes to the verse above. Suddenly I realized that I had never developed a godly sorrow over that sin. I regretted it because I knew it wasn't God's will for my life, but I had no real sorrow over it. I had hung on to it emotionally even though I had let go of it physically. I had done the right things, but I still felt the wrong things.

In the midst of your daily life, may you learn to delight not only in the final form of your becoming but in the ongoing dance of transformation itself. May you savor the beauty of each stage, from the first spark of change to the graceful unfolding, knowing that within each moment lies the promise of something new and wondrous.

When dealing with Alzheimer's, the grieving process is ongoing. It repeats itself over and over again. Just when you've come to accept a loss, you experience a new loss and the grieving process begins again. When a loved one has Alzheimer's, you lose a little bit of more of that person each day. You are constantly losing, grieving, and accepting. Some losses hit you harder than others, but you are constantly repeating the stages of grief regardless of the significance of the loss.

It’s a way to include them in the day in spirit, and to honor the ongoing inner relationships we carry forth. More than saying You were important to me, it says, You are important to me still. Experience this with me. Be part of my special day.

Sorrow is the cathedral, the immense architecture; in its interior there's room for almost everything: for desire, for flashes of happiness, for making plans for the future. And for watching all those evidences of ongoing life crumble in the flash of remembering, in the recurring wave of fresh grief.

lies in ourselves, in the ways we have let other people’s behaviors affect us and in the ways we try to affect them: the controlling, the obsessive “helping,” caretaking, low self-worth bordering on self-hatred, self-repression, an abundance of anger and guilt, a peculiar dependency on peculiar people, an attraction to and tolerance for the bizarre, othercenteredness that results in abandonment of self, communication problems, intimacy problems, and an ongoing whirlwind trip through the five-stage grief process.

~ In the realm of Ambiguous Loss, the absence persists, the closure eludes. A narrative without an ending, where the lines between presence and absence blur, where endings are but distant mirages. Its chronic presence perpetuates a narrative of loss, a loss that remains unclear and without resolution. It has no closure or finality because the loss is ongoing...

practice that we sustain over time. Any form will do—writing, drawing, meditation, prayer, dance, or something else—as long as we continue to show up and maintain our effort. A practice offers ballast, something to help us hold steady in difficult times. This deepens our capacity to hold the vulnerable emotions surrounding loss without being overwhelmed by them. Grief work is not passive: it implies an ongoing practice of deepening, attending and listening. It is an act of devotion, rooted in love and compassion.