Grief eating...carrot sticks and gummy bears

Grief eating? It's just all over the place.

I've been thinking about this post for a while, partly to clarify something I said in an earlier post, and partly just to talk about it.

When I was writing about the wonderful people who brought food those first couple of weeks, I made a comment about what a comfort it was to see my family fed, even though I could only eat carrot sticks. "Johnson Girl Disclaimer" (my mom and sisters will get that- the Nice Girl compulsion to explain so nobody's feelings are hurt)-  it was not that I was being pitiful, like, "Oh, poor meeee. The food is food that I cannot eat. Poor me, eating these lowly carrot sticks." The meals were lovely. It lifted a huge weight off of all of us, having meals brought. None of us had it in us to think, plan, shop or cook. Those meals, and the groceries and supplies that people brought to us were a godsend!

Here's why the carrot sticks: they were one of the few things I could stand to eat.

For the first two weeks or so, the horrible shock and unbearable grief sat in my throat, choking me. I could barely eat, and when I did eat (even something small and gentle, like one square of an allergen-free waffle) I would feel sick to my stomach for quite a while.

Our family often uses bits of dark humor to help us cope with things. The day after we got the news of Michael's death, I remember saying, "Well, this should be a good weight loss plan." Dark humor.

But it was also true. A few times a day, I would choke down a piece of waffle, one small carton of (dairy-free) yogurt, or a few carrot sticks. Those were about the only foods I could stand to put in my mouth. And then I would feel sick for an hour or two, until eventually my body would calm down, like, "Oh. Okay. That was not a hostile enemy poison attack. That was just yogurt." About every two days or so, I could actually eat a meal.

Everyone was worried about my not eating, but my body was in such a state of horrified panic that food was more than it could handle.

My husband, my mom and sister, and the kids, and my friends, were all worried and watching to make sure I ate, and I was keeping an eye on my husband, worried for him. I was relieved to see that he was actually able to eat meals. I mentioned this to one of our girls and she said, "Yeah, he eats, but a lot of his food ends up thrown away." "What do you mean?" She explained. Sure, I would see him with a plate of food; see him sitting down and eating with the family. What I had not noticed was that, as soon as a card came in the mail, with beautiful words of compassion, or someone stopped by to bring flowers or food or hugs and tears and prayer... the emotion would hit him so hard that he could not eat another bite, and would quietly go drop his meal in the trash. For both of us, the tidal waves of emotion made eating a problem.

I also ate a lot of gummy bears in those first days. In fact, one of the darkly funny moments, to us, was this:

My husband and our eldest daughter came in and saw me sitting at the computer. Them: "What are you doing?" Me: "Eating gummy bears and shopping online for cremation urns." Them, with wry humor: "Of course you are."

I needed to find an urn for our son's ashes. Horrible, hateful nightmare of a task. I also needed to eat lunch. The emotion of the search made me queasy, and the only thing I could stand to put in my mouth right then was gummy bears. So...I had gummy bears for lunch and hunted through the online jungle for just the right urn.

I've actually drawn a comic about this, and some of the other moments of this journey. One of these days, I'll share them on here.

Anyway, as predicted, this horrible loss was a "good weight-loss plan." And then it wasn't. Because everyone was so worried about me, I kept a watch on my weight just so I could reassure them. Overall, I lost about seven pounds. Since I'd started out about twenty-ish pounds over my ideal healthy weight, this was not a problem. My weight was not my main priority at that point. I kept an eye on it to be sure it didn't get dangerously low, but how my pants fit was by far the least of my worries.

I had been shaken and shattered so completely on every level that I needed to be very gentle and nurturing with myself. I was suddenly, deeply fragile and every single nerve felt raw and battered. I needed soft voices, kind words, comfortable clothes and comforting food. Comfort food was a legitimate need.

Here is something I'm proud of: even though I needed comfort food in a real way, I did not actually fall back into my old destructive eating patterns. In the past, I definitely used food to deal with my emotions. The day we put our dog to sleep, back in 1995, I ate almost everything in the freezer- even the old nasty frost-caked ice cream. I would pile food in until I could no longer feel the sadness. I would eat until the physical pain drowned out the emotional pain.

God and I have worked long and hard on this issue. To have experienced a trauma like the suicide of our child, and to come through it without reverting to those old habits feels like an incredible accomplishment to me!

Here's the thing, though...grief hits everyone differently. Some people stop eating and become dangerously thin. Some people eat their way through their grief and gain a lot of weight. It is not the same for everyone. In the past I probably would have had opinions about how other people handled things, judging whether they did it "right." I am so over that! This horrible experience has taught me a depth of compassion I did not have before. I look at how each grieving person struggles along, and I feel tender toward them. We are all, every one of us, just doing the best we know how. As my middle sister said recently, "Sometimes, people are doing their best and their best isn't very good, but it's still the best they have for that day." She's so wise.

There is not one, right way to do grief. It is so personal and so individual.

My way was hardly being able to choke things down, and then eating gentle comfort foods for many months. Eventually though, a diet of comfort food will catch up with a person.

Also, my health and eating were impacted by a whole different issue: RV life. Once we sold our home and started living full-time in a travel trailer, we both started to put on weight. When you live in about 275 square feet, you really don't move much. If I were not in all sorts of trauma, maybe I would be one of those energetic, motivated people who work out passionately, and vigorously counteract the effects of tiny-space living. Or maybe not. Maybe I'd still just be me. I am starting to make some positive changes now, cutting back on sugar and going for more and longer walks.

One of my favorite things about God is His gentle compassion. Through those long months of soothing my hurt with food, He just loved on me. Only after about seven or eight months did He gently start to nudge me about the food issue. Gentle is really the word. First, it was just coming across the phrase, "God of comfort" in something I was reading. When I read it, there was a gentle little touch on my heart. Soon after that, a pastor mentioned in a sermon that as He is the God of Comfort, we should really be turning to Him and not to other things. Again, the gentle nudge on my heart. I started thinking about that, and felt God encouraging me along that path; toward seeing Him as my source of comfort, rather than food. A couple of weeks ago, one of our kids said that God had been bringing her to the same message, in almost the exact same words. More confirmation that this was God's voice leading me.

I felt so loved. There was never, in all those months or in His redirection of my thinking, one hint of condemnation. He did not shame me. He truly is all-loving and all-compassionate. He knows the deep suffering of my heart and mind even better than I do. He has been so gentle with my broken heart. At the same time, He knows that there are better, healthier ways and when the time is right He gently leads me toward them. He loves me so much and He grieves for my sorrow. He also loves me far too much to let me continue on paths that will hurt me in other ways. He gave me time to get through those first agonizing months, just cradling me close to His heart. Then, with such love, He started easing me into ways that will lead to wholeness and health.

I think that one of the most important things, for those who are grieving, is to be gentle with ourselves. And for those around us to be gentle with us. We are all, every one of us humans, just doing the best we know how. Sometimes, our best may not be very good, but it is still the best we have to offer in that moment. We need to just love on ourselves and let ourselves be okay with where we are. And then, when God nudges us to move in a better direction, we need to lean on Him and let Him lead us there.