My therapist gets paid by the hour, but today I think she thought she got paid by the number of times she said, “Says who?” 

I really thought when I went in today that I was doing better – not that I would say I’m doing well, don’t misunderstand me – but perhaps a smidge better, like I had just the tiniest grip on things.  She asked how I was doing and I said that I was slowly getting things accomplished and she asked about the kinds of things I was trying to accomplish and somewhere in my explanation, the tears just started rolling.  It shouldn’t have taken a therapist, but it did, to tell me these things I was trying to accomplish seemed to be causing stress and anxiety.  I agreed, many of the things on my list do cause me stress, or they upset me, or they are emotional landmines, but that the list, nevertheless, needs to get done.  

“Says who?” 

Well, surely, at some point, life has to move forward, I have to figure out how to function so I need to get a start on that now.

“Says who?”

Well, friends and family extend invites, school has applied pressure about my return, the to-do list stares at me dauntingly, and I have told myself that I need to get out, I need to return to work before long, that I have to get this to-do list under control. 

“Says who?”

Says the pressure, intended or not, from the world we live in. Says my inner voice that tells me I need to suck it up and get moving forward. Grief makes us all uncomfortable, and so we want to rush the process, we want to push through and “get to the other side.”  But there, apparently, isn’t “another side.”  We, as my therapist reminds me, have to learn to live with the grief.  It will always be with us, but we need to give ourselves the grace and time to settle in to that new way of living.

Before I left her office, I explained that school was asking for documentation to support my extended absence.  She readily agreed to provide me such a note, and began asking me for the details of where it needed to go and to whom she should address it.  “I am going back on March 13,” I added, a remark that caused her to look up sharply from her notebook.  

“Says who?”

Well, says me, again, I guess.  “It’s the date I said I would be back,” I explained.  She asked if it was flexible, if I was out of leave time.  I explained that I still had more sick days, but that at some point I had to return, I had to get back to work.  She didn’t add in another phrase-of-the-day to the conversation, instead she simply said, “Yes.  But together, let’s determine that timeline.”

Afterwards, in the parking lot, I texted friends that I was supposed to go out with tomorrow and politely declined.  “Another time,” I texted, without committing to a time or place, I gave myself room, as my therapist suggested, and I gave myself grace, “I thought I was ready, but it’s still too hard right now,” I explained.  My friends will understand.  One is also a widow and the other is facing the anniversary of her dad’s passing later this week.  All of us are grieving.

None of us are immune to loss.  I was reminded today that there is no set order or process or timeline or checklist or protocol for grieving.  My to-do list will get done when it gets done.  I will, at some point, return to work.  I wil, at times, go out with people and interact with family and friends, but I will do so when I am able and for everything else, I am going to extend grace, give myself room to grieve and not cast judgment on myself for how long that takes or what I need to work through it all.  Because no one else can determine what I need. 

Says me. (Well, and my therapist.)