Taming the Four Horsemen of Grief

ENTER, HORSEMEN

My older sister, Sarah, took her own life almost 8 years ago. As the reality of her suicide started to sink in, I realized everything was different, but I couldn’t grasp how it would permeate every aspect of my existence. I had experienced death before, but her loss felt stickier.

It took a few years before I finally accepted that my grief around Sarah’s death wasn’t going away. I knew I’d have to learn to live with it, to tame it. For me that meant confronting, feeling, and addressing the vast slew of negative emotions that indiscriminately invaded my daily life.

I bundled the negative emotions into four mind viruses, and took the liberty of naming them the Four Horsemen of Grief: Distortion, Regret, Apathy, and Isolation. With these labels and representation, I found it easier to bring them out of the abstract to be inspected in full daylight.

The Horsemen can be deceiving. At first they were even a source of comfort. They lulled me with their shared lie that if I let them scoop me up and ride me along I wouldn’t have to feel Sarah’s loss. They each have their own curse too, a false promise of relief.

I wrongly assumed they were there to escort me through the dense woods of grieving and drop me off safely on the other side. I didn’t understand that they were vying to become my constant companions who would run me down, run me over, and run me ragged if I let them. I had to learn how to keep each Horseman riding in the shadows alongside me instead of trampling me or dragging me behind. This is an ongoing endeavor. My own spirit has become a battleground, and the earliest fights were to avoid a personal end of times.

The same Horsemen that have stalked me are now pursuing our friends, Tim and Rita, too. They recently lost their 22-year old daughter, Meredith, in a skydiving mishap. Her boyfriend was an instructor and he’d taken her skydiving a few times before. Each time she went, she reported back with an enthusiasm and joy that was contagious. She would smile and cock her head slightly when Tim expressed his reservations, reassuring her dad that it was the best feeling in the world and that it was perfectly safe. Then one day Rita got the phone call.

We saw the family a few days after Meredith died. Raw in their loss, they gasped for air as they sobbed on our shoulders.

Over the past couple of months I’ve observed their valiant efforts to re-engage with work, social activities, hobbies, life. At a birthday party for a mutual friend I recognized that look behind their eyes. I don’t know if I can do this, be here. They forced smiles and conversation, white knuckling under the table, periodically blinking back tears and hoping nobody noticed.

They are struggling, and rightly so, to do any activity other than grieve Meredith. It’s palpable, all-consuming.

Witnessing Tim and Rita’s grief has offered me a mirror of my own and allowed me to recognize how far I’ve come in managing how I interact with the Horsemen. I share this hoping it may serve as an encouragement to anyone who needs it. For anyone who, like I did before and like my friends do now, may feel like there’s a chance they won’t be able to go on after losing a loved one.

DISTORTION

The rider on the white horse is Distortion. He will try to conquer the mind, invading every thought and experience. His lie is that there’s a version of the story about the deceased and how they died that will somehow make it better. He shows up as falsehoods, misrepresentations, pretenses, denial, confusion, any number of distractions to the narrative.

Sarah’s case involved a drawn out police investigation, there were some actual unknowns that the detective was working through. That became an excuse for me to keep speculating about alternative storylines for how my sister ended up dead. I’d lie awake at all hours of the night, visualizing the exact moment of Sarah’s death, trying to imagine what she felt and thought leading up to her last breath. Then my mind would present an elaborate hypothetical situation, a home intruder and how he’d followed her home, waited for her to go to bed. My mind spiraled endlessly, stealing my sleep, draining my energy, and clouding my judgment. Distortion dropped a veil between me and what was known, and I didn’t want to pull it back to see what was behind.

Finding clarity is how one defies Distortion. For months I told people, and myself, vague things about Sarah. “It may have been self-inflicted,” was a go-to, but I found it hard to move forward from that undefined position. It took over a year before I could decidedly admit that my sister died by suicide. My clear truth statement, “my sister killed herself,” eventually provided me with a reference point to come back to and move away from.

To get to clarity, I had let go of the desire for the objective truth to somehow resonate with my subjective thoughts and feelings. I had to gather what was known and find the most simple truth I could distill and condense it into a concise, factual statement. Then come back to it regularly.

Tim and Rita are still refining. We’re helping them by being willing to say Meredith’s name, to acknowledge that she is dead without the constant use of euphemism. It’s going to take them a while to formulate their narrative, and that’s okay.

REGRET

The rider on the red horse is Regret. He stirs up a war to be waged within oneself to decide where to place the blame, ravaging any chance of peace, and any hope for it. His lie is that if a villain can be identified as guilty, all anger can be aptly directly and it will lessen the hurt of the loss. He taunts with flashbacks of moments, comments, gestures, and interactions with the lost loved one, leading the bereaved to surmise, in desperation, that if they, or someone else, had acted differently, this death could have been avoided.

The day before Sarah was found dead, dad randomly sent me a picture of the two of us together when we were probably 5 and 7 years old. We were in a pile of fall leaves, Sarah’s arm draped over my shoulders in a protective and affectionate sideways hug. Our little smiles seemed to take up our whole faces. Ah, how sweet, I thought. I’ll call her tomorrow. Wrong. I didn’t know there wouldn’t be a “tomorrow” for Sarah. I didn’t call right then because I was busy with work, I was exhausted, and I figured she was probably busy too anyway. I’ve spent hours berating myself for not calling her right when I saw that photo, hating myself for being so caught up and frazzled in my own life that I felt I couldn’t stop to make a call. In a haze of faulty logic, I derived the seemingly obvious foregone conclusion: if only I had spoken with Sarah that day, she’d still be here. It feels self-evident, as if discovering a revelation, but it’s only speculative. There are hundreds of other snapshots like this, each one initiating a new cycle of self-torture and perpetuating the war within.

The way out of this war with Regret is to surrender. Even if one could go back and change something—which is impossible—that wouldn’t ensure the desired outcome. If I had talked to Sarah that day, she may have killed herself anyway and instead I’d be wondering if it was related to something I said, instead of something I didn’t say. I can’t even be sure she would have picked up the phone.

Surrender becomes accessible by first becoming aware of these attempts to assign guilt and blame. As I became aware of them, I then learned to start interrupting them. I found the questioning series from Byron Katie’s book, “Loving What Is” really valuable for this. First, “Is it true?” Then, “Can you absolutely know that it’s true?” Deliberately asking myself these types of questions laid the groundwork for me to eventually ask them automatically. The answer to these questions is invariably, “No, I have no way to be sure that anything I’m entertaining would have definitely made a difference.” The repeated logic of the query has empowered me to be able to notice sooner when Regret is trying to run me into the woods, keeping me closer to the path and allowing me to more readily find my way back.

Tim and Rita have lamented that if only they’d planned the family picnic for Saturday instead of Sunday, this accident would have clearly been avoided and Meredith would still be here. They are still fighting with Regret and working through the disquieting truth that Meredith is really dead.

APATHY

The rider on the black horse is Apathy. He starves life of meaning and destroys the will, leaving one unable to find purpose in a world made instantly bleak. His lie is that because the loved one is dead, the bereaved person’s life is no longer worth living, and they are not worth looking after. This level of despair overrides impulses to complete mundane yet critical tasks like eating, bathing, and exercise. Apathy offers numbness; it can temporarily feel like a viable solution, but it’s only a ruse.

For a time, I felt I didn’t deserve to enjoy simple things Sarah no longer could, like a hot shower. She and I both practiced yoga, so it seemed like some sort of betrayal to pull out my mat and feel my muscles enlivened. I became weak, irritable, deranged, and felt horrible, all of which only further hindered my capacity to recover. While I was unraveling, I barely noticed, and couldn’t be bothered to care.

Cultivating care will eventually defeat Apathy. Every tiny little action that can be taken to preserve or rebuild one’s health, hygiene, and humanity must be given precedence. For a long time after Sarah died, I felt too overwhelmed to brush my teeth by the end of the day. I fared slightly better in the mornings, but the toothbrush seemed too burdensome, just the thought of fiddling with the toothpaste cap was more than I could handle. I had to make tiny changes to woo myself back into what had previously been an automatic habit. I had to take advantage of the moments when I felt a little stronger, let friends and loved ones help me, and set up systems to reduce friction. We bought a flip top brand of toothpaste so the twist cap wasn’t such a barrier when I was tired. I set an alarm for 9 pm to remind me, complete with a message that my phone would read in a robotic voice, “come on sweets, brush yer teefs.” Sometimes the alarm helped, and sometimes I’d just ignore it. I learned to not beat myself up about it when I didn’t follow through, anticipating that I would brush my teeth next time. Which I often did. Gradually, each “next time” started to rebuild the habit and reinforce the idea that I was worth taking care of. Which I am.

Apathy got the better of Tim and Rita for a while, hollowing out their cheeks. They couldn’t conceive of preparing or even ordering food delivery for the first month or so after Meredith died. We rallied with other members of the community and took turns bringing them meals, sometimes sitting with them, others just leaving it at the door with a note or text. Each meal was a friend validating their worthiness; reminding them that they are worth taking care of too.

In case it’s not crystal clear, you, dear reader, are also worth it.

ISOLATION

The rider on the pale horse is Isolation. He brings his own kind of death. His lie is that suffering must be endured alone, forever, and it’s better that way. Every call ignored and activity avoided in his name reinforces and prolongs loneliness.

I marveled at how the rest of the world just kept on going while mine had imploded. I was faced with the realization that for most other people, Sarah’s death actually had no direct impact on their lives. Friends, co-workers, even acquaintances reached out, sent cards, food, flowers, and condolences. In spite of the outpouring of support, I was convinced by Isolation that if they didn’t suffer the same way I did, I was abandoned to deal with my grief on my own. I was transported to an alternate version of reality in which everything was viewed through the lens of my pain. From this vantage point, I felt like I no longer shared reality with friends or work colleagues. This perceived disparity of experience caused a discordance that was difficult for me to reconcile. Diminished and empty, I felt I had nothing to contribute, and started considering myself a burden to others. So I withdrew further.  

The antidote to Isolation is engagement. Maybe not right away, and maybe not in all the same ways as before, but as soon as possible. Almost a month after Sarah’s death, I needed to go back to work. I had to team teach an activity class for a group of students with two other instructors and I was scheduled to be the lead. Moments before the class was to start I felt my breath stuck in my upper chest as I found myself asking, “how the fuck am I supposed to go in there and just act like Sarah isn’t dead?” My co-worker, Bill, popped his head in my office. I looked up and we locked eyes. He didn’t need to ask questions. “I’ve got it,” he said. “I’ll get them started, take your time.” His tone conveyed only compassion. His kindness in that moment provided just enough space for me to catch my breath and compose myself. I went in a few minutes later and did my job. I got through. Small interactions like that taught me over time to trust myself and trust others as I integrated in my new reality. I learned that it was actually essential that Sarah’s death didn’t impact everyone the way it impacted me. If it did, no one would have had the strength to lend me. I’ve cried in public, too many times to count by now. I’ve confused a few strangers and had some uncomfortable moments with a friend or two. But without exception I’ve discovered that whoever is there for me in a moment of need can handle it. If they couldn’t, they wouldn’t be there.

I was so proud of Time and Rita for coming out to that birthday party. It was a surprise for someone’s 50th and had been on the calendar well before Meredith died. They had declined other invitations because they don’t want to bring their sadness to what should otherwise be a fun social encounter. They could have bailed on the 50th, everyone would have understood. Isolation told them to stay home. But they came. There were some tears, and not just from them, but the birthday party wasn’t ruined. Everyone was happy to see them and even eager to welcome them, trembling hands and all.

HOPE & LEARNING TO RIDE

Since the Horsemen aren’t likely to ever completely ride on and leave me alone, I like to imagine that one day I’ll be able to take the reins completely, steer them where I want to go, instead of just keeping them at bay. For now, though, I’m relieved that they’ve been tamed enough to just ride alongside me—for the most part. I do still have to battle them back somewhat regularly, at least once a day. One or all of them will bump into me or cut me off abruptly, but it’s not catastrophic like it used to be.

Getting to this point has not been an easy task. I continue to lean on my husband, his family, and dedicated friends, work with a therapist, read and study about suicide and grief, and keep taking small and consistent steps towards cultivating my relationship with each Horseman. That means that every day I have to look them each in the eyes and re-commit to not accepting their lies.  

It’s an ongoing labor of love, for myself, my husband, and for everyone important in my life who would be better served by the best version of me that I can muster. My continued healing is also a labor of love for Tim and Rita, so I can be a living example that it can get easier, and so I can be available to have their back whenever they need it as they fend off the Horsemen for themselves. It’s also a labor of love for Sarah; I believe she would want me to live, not die too.

I am actively trying to say “yes” more than “no” and trust that it will persistently get better little by little, as it has been, if I keep showing up for life and for myself. And be willing to do so again and again. And again.