Finding Gratitude in Grief; Learning that Joy and Pain Can Coexist
Updated: Sep 10
My good friend, Neil Parekh, asked me to write a blog post for the upcoming episode of Shining Light on Shadows. I’ll be talking about PTSD, grief, trauma and recovery after a vicious dog attack. For some reason, writing this piece has felt much more vulnerable than preparing to share my story live, on the internet for all to see. As I sat at my computer turning chaotic thoughts into coherent words, I realized I have so much more to say than I expected. With each new topic I discuss, my mind comes up with dozens more. So while this experience has pushed me wildly outside of my comfort zone, it also feels like a gift of healing.
I have always been empathetic. Maybe even to a fault. I was the child crying about an inanimate object’s feelings, or refusing to watch movies where a cat dies. However, dealing with chronic pain, that is all but invisible, amplified my empathy tenfold. I remember walking through the mall a few weeks after the attack with bruises and bandaids thinking to myself, “No one has any idea where these are really from.” And then a few months later, walking through the grocery store, I thought to myself, “No one knows the news I just received.”
In these moments I just wanted to scream at the top of my lungs announcing all that I had lost. I thought that would force people to be kind. Force them to understand. But as I looked into every seemingly apathetic stranger's eyes, I started to wonder who they were grieving, what they had lost.
I realized that everyone else was silently begging for the same compassion that I was. I try to use this realization now to give people the benefit of the doubt more often, or be the person who smiles at everyone in the Aldi shopping aisle. This experience has made me a kinder stranger, and for that I am grateful.
I joining Shining Lights on Shadows for Ep. 56 "Invisible Scars: PTSD, Grief and Life After a Dog Attack."
It is hosted by my good friend, Neil Parekh, and new friend Dawn Neuburg. (She had an incredible story to share as well.) You can watch the recording on Facebook*, Twitter, LinkedIn, YouTube, or Neil's website. (You can find more details about the show on his website.)
*Facebook will delete the video in 30 days (approx. October 9).
Perhaps the most difficult part of my journey post-attack has been how it’s impacted my relationships. The most hurtful one of them all is probably the relationship I had with my college throws coach. My first year at CCSU, I was the only freshman and I immediately developed a close relationship with my throws coach. She was an incredible mentor for me, and I spent a lot of time watching her kids or taking care of her cats. We were just close, and I always felt supported by her in life and in sport. But after the attack it all changed.
At first, she was extremely supportive, telling me she would be there through whatever it was I needed. I truly appreciated how she spent extra time giving me different programs and modifying my exercises. But as soon as I got the news that the damage would be permanent, everything changed. For both of us. Now that I was a liability to the team rather than an asset, it felt as though I was forgotten. Over the next few years we drifted farther and farther apart, barely even speaking during my senior season. Although we were not close this past year, part of me is still broken that she never even said goodbye to me after our last competition. Even after graduating, I have not heard a word. Losses of relationships and trust are side effects that I never could have expected after a physical injury, and they are potentially the most painful ones.
When Bitterness Takes Root
Looking back on that first year after the attack, I can see just how bitter I had become. After the initial heartbreak and devastation of facing permanent injury wore off, I was just angry. Angry that I would never have the athletic career I’d imagined. Angry that I’d never have the life I’d imagined. My freshman year of college, I came within a couple feet of our school record. I was so mad at myself for not achieving this milestone at our final meet of the year, but my teammates all assured me that I had three more years to do it. “Don’t be so hard on yourself,” they said. I was attacked that summer. I never improved in discus again.
While I wish I would not have turned to bitterness because of this, I couldn’t help but be furious at my teammates who had pain-free bodies and were unappreciative of what they had. The irony in that is obvious. I was in their shoes just months before. It felt like a punch in the gut everytime someone threw away an opportunity that I would have given anything to have again. And sometimes I let that resentment get the best of me. I lost friends, and the support of many teammates because of this.
I can recall how furious I got at one of my fellow throwers, who I once considered a good friend. My coach had just told me that she wasn’t going to be taking me to the biggest meet of the year, the one she knew I loved the most, because she worried how I’d do traveling. This was a terrible excuse since I had just traveled to Portugal for a class a week prior. Instead she took one of our new teammates who when asked if she was nervous said, “I don’t care how I do, I’m just getting a vacation.” I remember being beside myself in anger, and I couldn’t even look at her the rest of the year. Bitterness had wrapped itself around my heart, and it took months of reframing and gratitude to pry it off. This is the part of my healing process that I have been the most hesitant to talk about.
When people hear that you are dealing with PTSD, they understand that you would have trouble sleeping, experience panic attacks, and have nightmares. But, when they see how bitter you’ve become, hardened by all that you’re carrying, it slips into a grey area. The grace given for the physical symptoms and visible scars does not extend to the invisible scars. It was like I had disassociated from myself at times. I could tell that I was being irritable, or just rude, but I couldn’t get myself to stop it. Was this new personality really another part of the PTSD?
For a long time any thoughts about what I was going through brought me great shame, because I knew other people have lost much more. I quickly realized that the quiet shame and embarrassment were not helping anybody. The more I bullied myself into “just getting over it,” the worse the moments were when the emotions finally bubbled over.
After a few months of cycling through holding it together as long as I could, and then breaking, over and over, I was desperate for a new way to function. Through therapy and lots of reflection I realized that I was not giving myself permission to feel sad. To mourn. This loss of the life I knew before was a grief. And as soon as I named it as such, a weight immediately lifted from my shoulders. I started giving myself a board to ride the waves of grief with, as opposed to holding my breath, bracing for impact as they crashed over me. The girl I was before this attack and the woman I am now are far different.
After years of longing for and grieving the girl I was, I’ve realized that I also like who I am now.
Sometimes I wish that the people I have met since the attack knew who I was before. Before I was changed forever. Sometimes I cringe at the changes that have occurred, damning the fates that made it this way. Other times I feel nothing but gratitude for all that I have grown and all that I have learned. I bounce between these two opposite sides of a coin quite often, sometimes even in the same conversation. Emotional whiplash is a common thread in this journey. But now, three years later, I land on the latter more than the former.
I recently heard Lucy Kalanithi speak on a podcast about her journey with grief. She is the wife of Paul Kalanithi, the author of the most incredible memoir, “When Breath Becomes Air.” Lucy said, “You cannot have joy without risking pain or inviting pain.” Some of my most joyous moments in life have occurred since this attack, because I have allowed the pain in.
Through this experience I have learned that joy and pain, grief and gratitude can coexist.
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