Random thoughts about grief and positivity. I’ve written about toxic positivity before: how the American culture doesn’t embrace “feeling your feels.” We urge the “Pull yourself up by your bootstraps” model. Keep on the sunny side. Look on the bright side. Or as my mother used to say when I’d complain about something, “at least you’re not in chemotherapy!” I half expected her to say it when Ben died.

That was just a preface to the thought that struck me last night. I spend a lot of time feeling, and saying, “I don’t want to be here anymore.” When I say it, I don’t mean I’m suicidal, I mean exactly that: I don’t want to be here anymore. If the Lord chose to take me home tonight, I’d be very grateful. But that phrase makes people squirm. It’s not acceptable to feel, much less say out loud. I think that needs to change.

Early in grief I pushed those thoughts back, did not share them, and grasped desperately to the only culture I’d ever known: positivity. I told myself I would feel better in a month, a year. I’m strong, I’ll survive this. I’ll be happy again.

So when another day, week, month, year came and I didn’t feel better, I felt like I was failing at grief. Failing at positivity. Failing myself, my therapist, and everyone around me. Positivity was not helping me adjust to my feelings, it was causing me to push them back, and add guilt on top of it.

When I finally started saying out loud, first to myself, then my support system, finally my doctor, “I don’t want to be here. I’m not suicidal, I just don’t want to be here” I felt honest. I worried that maybe I’d added depression on top of my grief, but I don’t think so. I think I was finally embracing the reality of losing my child.

Now when I measure each day against that honest baseline, I find that most days it remains true, neither better or worse. But some days I do want to be here, if just for today. And that feels like progress. I give myself a pat on the back for moving past my baseline.

It’s much better than failing to “find happiness” every single day.