I had value in being the victim.
And there is value for you too.
I clenched my jaw, careful not to let my face show the tension. My eyes stared directly at him, but my vision was somewhere off in the distance. My throat tightened, and dark, black bile swirled in my stomach as I listened to him speak.
“It won’t always be like this, CJ. Things _will_ get better.”
I nodded my head. Painted on a half smile and excused myself from the conversation.
Later, in the quiet of the night, I sat on my bedroom floor, enraged. _How the f*ck could he say that? It won’t be better. How f*cking invalidating. I’m so sick and tired of people condescending to me._
I punished the floor with my fists until they went numb. Each time they made contact, my heart broke a little more. And the walls of my cocoon grew thicker. Stitched and lined with my grief.
I was the victim and the world my perpetrator.
No one cared for me.
No one saw me.
No one carried me.
I was—all alone.
I held tightly to my grief, not the experience of it, but the situation it put me in—with my kids, without Ariana, alone.
I fought against anger daily.
I wanted to be free.
Free of the pain, torment, and victimhood.
I wanted to be rescued, but wouldn’t let anyone in.
I wanted to be seen, but refused to give anyone a chance.
I wanted to be heard, but wouldn’t let anyone ask.
I couldn’t understand why I held people at a distance.
I couldn’t say aloud how much comfort I had holding onto my grief.
I couldn’t see that what I was really fighting against was not my grief, but my situation.
I fixated on my life without Ariana and my kids’ lives without their mom.
It brought me so much security to blame my circumstances, and it gave me a false sense of connection to Ariana. She suffered in her death, so I needed to suffer in my living.
My identity collapsed into a single focused moniker—“the griever.” And anyone who challenged that became my perpetrator.
Yet, all this is normal, and I will go so far as to say good.
Our lives were changed without our permission. We lost what we never intended to lose. It was out of our control.
Being “the griever,” stuck in victimhood, gives us time to feel the anger, pain, and sadness. It gives us strength to push back against the world and find the space to discover who we are without distractions.
So, if there is purpose in this state, how do we respond when we feel the pull of rage towards someone who condescends to us?
—with authenticity.
Let yourself be mad, angry, and enraged.
Let yourself feel everything that comes up.
Let yourself communicate to someone safe how the words affect you.
Your path is uniquely yours. You had no control over the loss you suffered or how your life has changed. But you always have agency over what you do next. Accept where you are and let grief hollow you out. But don’t stop walking your path because you never know where the quicksand is.
Stop for too long, and you might find yourself no longer able to scream for help.
— CJ
If this resonated and you feel stuck, you are exactly the person I work with in my coaching. I help you learn how to grieve and move forward into a future of growth and possibility. Apply now to begin working with me.