When Christmas Feels Lost: A Story for Those Facing GRIEF

Welcome to the first of three Christmas podcasts, where I talk about the different feelings we have during the holiday season. Today, I focus on how it can be hard to deal with loss during Christmas. It can be tough if someone you love isn't there, if you had a difficult relationship, or if you just feel sad during this time of year. I want to support you and give you permission to feel your grief.

I'll share stories, talk about love and grief, offer tips for taking care of yourself during the holidays, and I'll end with a moving and meaningful Dickensian Christmas story. So, get cosy, find a quiet place, and let's attend to how we can heal.

Citations

Coping with Memories of Grief and Loss at Christmas - Lyn Reed
https://welldoing.org/article/coping-with-memories-grief-loss-christmas
‘It’s Ok that you’re not OK” - Megan Devine
Charles Dickens ' What Christmas is as we Grow Older'
http://www.free-short-stories.org.uk/charles-dickens-what-christmas-is-as-we-grow-older.htm

Another podcast you may like: Whiskers & Tears - Healing From Pet Bereavement

Transcript

Today in the first of three Christmas podcasts, I'm talking about loss. And I'm also going to read you a story. I'm Shelley Treacher from Underground Confidence.

This podcast is for people whose eating feels out of control. If you wanna get started on your recovery,

You can get my Comfort Eating Recovery Starter kit at the direct link in the show notes or from www.bristolcounseling.co.uk

Christmas is a challenge for all of us with comfort eating.  This is the major comfort eating season, where it's literally built into our traditions. We have so many habits built up around Christmas eating.

And Christmas can be a challenge for many of us anyway.  Traditions and habits can also remind us of a lost relative or friend. Grief or loss can be huge for us at Christmas, particularly as we get older. We're more likely to associate Christmas with somebody that we've lost, or somebody that we haven't found yet.

Grief is a part of our lives. but it's never more apparent than at Christmas. This magical season of warmth and light where everybody seems like they're getting together for warmth and love. If you're grieving for someone or something this Christmas, Know that you're certainly not alone.

I know that obviously the grief and the waves of grief can be relentlessly painful and exhausting and we often feel that we shouldn't be grieving for very long but that isn't true because much of the time We do and what's really needed to get through it is to be able to create that space to handle it or to not handle it.

It's something that needs to be nurtured and allowed.  

In our culture of positivity, which I think, in some ways, is born out of fear or pain of discomfort,  we think that we should be getting over this by now.

But being positive doesn't mean being happy all the time and squashing how you feel. It means resourcing yourself in the face of adversity, knowing what you're facing, and overcoming it in your own way. A sense of safety, resource, strength. All of that is internal. 

And part of the deal is acknowledging your pain. Else, what do you know to let go of? I had a lovely session today with a woman who I admire enormously. Like so many people I know, she was afraid of contacting how she felt. But as the session evolved, her pain became apparent. It was painful. But this soon gave way to relief, and the realisation, having chatted about her relationship with her parents, that she wasn't allowed to have feelings when she was growing up.

Certainly nobody had encouraged her to feel angry or sad or upset. So she squashed it all with food. But then as she let it out, scientifically, I know that her nervous system started to calm down and realign itself. When we're grieving or in pain, we tend to go into our brains. But what we actually need is our limbic system.

This is our physiological system that helps us to regulate how we feel. All of that is cut off if we comfort eat. I watched a beautiful little series this weekend, The Lost Flowers of Alice Hart. There was a lot of pain and loss in this film, but the most moving part for me  was when a woman, it was set in Australia, she befriended an Aboriginal family. so they all sat around the campfire for the evening. Away from the distractions of modern life, gradually, this woman started to acknowledge her pain.  She had been cut off from her children. 

And slowly, you could see the pain on her face. She cried and cried and cried. For a moment, I wondered what everybody in the crowd would do. But it soon became so clear that all of these women around her were just holding her pain. Even the children just allowed her to grieve. 

I think the most beautiful part for me was when the older woman of the family, just came over and held her.  And then afterwards, she was visibly clearer. Whilst I know this was a TV program, it was very moving. And it reminded me of this time honoured tradition of telling your stories of grief. So if you're grieving and you feel lost this Christmas, whether that's about a certain particular person that you've loved and you don't have in your life anymore to do the things that you would normally do things with, or whether you're grieving the loss of someone you haven't even met because you feel alone, tell your story.

If you can't tell it to others, tell it to yourself, in writing, or even in voice. Not because you'll get over it, or make it better, but because denying it isn't really what we want either,  is it?  Often, you can move through it if you express what's going on for you, but you won't always. Sometimes, you just learn to hold it and be kind enough to yourself that you can.

This is what I think of as inner resource and strength. This is, I think, the most important skill to learn in getting over comfort eating.

I know it's tempting to stay solitary when you feel grief or loss or depression,  but as I've said in other podcasts, being with other people, particularly people who make you feel safe, can help you to regulate.

As with everything that's difficult or emotional, start small. Go out for a tiny walk, or meet with your friend in a way that you don't have to talk much. Maybe go to the cinema.

I'm a great advocate of ritual. Every Christmas, no matter where I am, I carry my mother in my heart. If I'm going to be in my own home for Christmas, I'll light a candle for her. All day. But you can also carry something special of somebody's. You can listen to their favourite music, watch their favourite film.

I will be watching a classic this Christmas as I do every year in honour of my mother. You can put an object in a beautiful place.  Or you can write a letter. One of my favourite traditions with my mother at Christmas was to go for a walk and then eat late.

We never ate at the same time as everybody else did because my mother wasn't a great cook. She didn't like cooking, so it took all day for us both to get it together.   And we'd go on a freezing cold walk. Not for very long, but just enough to make us feel like we belong in the rest of the world.

And to work up the feeling that we'd earned the dinner we were about to have.  Because my mum was funny. She was genuinely funny. She always made me laugh. And because we never quite did anything the way that other people do it.  Every Christmas, remembering that is a joy for me.

And a way that I gain a sense of belonging. With her not being here. So what traditions do you love about this season, and how can you make them sacred or joyful for you?

If you need more help with grief or loss, I have done another podcast on this. The link will be in the show notes. 

But now I'm going to read you a Christmas bedtime story.

I read these stories at Christmas because they're beautiful and meaningful. But also because there's nothing more important than good sleep and relaxation. So if this helps you get to sleep, you have my blessing.  

This is a short Christmas story by Charles Dickens. What Christmas is, as we grow older. 

Time was, with most of us, when Christmas Day encircling all our limited world like a magic ring, left nothing out for us to miss or seek; bound together all our home enjoyments, affections, and hopes; grouped everything and every one around the Christmas fire; and made the little picture shining in our bright young eyes, complete. 

Time came, perhaps, all so soon, when our thoughts over-leaped that narrow boundary; when there was some one (very dear, we thought then, very beautiful, and absolutely perfect) wanting to the fullness of our happiness; when we were wanting too (or we thought so, which did just as well) at the Christmas hearth by which that some one sat; and when we intertwined with every wreath and garland of our life that some one's name. 

That was the time for the bright visionary Christmases which have long arisen from us to show faintly, after summer rain, in the palest edges of the rainbow! That was the time for the beatified enjoyment of the things that were to be, and never were, and yet the things that were so real in our resolute hope that it would be hard to say, now, what realities achieved since, have been stronger! 

What! Did that Christmas never really come when we and the priceless pearl who was our young choice were received, after the happiest of totally impossible marriages, by the two united families previously at daggers, drawn on our account? When brothers and sisters-in-law who had always been rather cool to us before our relationship was effected, perfectly doted on us, and when fathers and mothers overwhelmed us with unlimited incomes? Was that Christmas dinner never really eaten, after which we arose, and generously and eloquently rendered honour to our late rival, present in the company, then and there exchanging friendship and forgiveness, and founding an attachment, not to be surpassed in Greek or Roman story, which subsisted until death? Has that same rival long ceased to care for that same priceless pearl, and married for money, and become usurious? Above all, do we really know, now, that we should probably have been miserable if we had won and worn the pearl, and that we are better without her? 

That Christmas when we had recently achieved so much fame; when we had been carried in triumph somewhere, for doing something great and good; when we had won an honoured and ennobled name, and arrived and were received at home in a shower of tears of joy; is it possible that THAT Christmas has not come yet? 

And is our life here, at the best, so constituted that, pausing as we advance at such a noticeable mile-stone in the track as this great birthday, we look back on the things that never were, as naturally and full as gravely as on the things that have been and are gone, or have been and still are? If it be so, and so it seems to be, must we come to the conclusion that life is little better than a dream, and little worth the loves and strivings that we crowd into it? 

No! Far be such miscalled philosophy from us, dear Reader, on Christmas Day! Nearer and closer to our hearts be the Christmas spirit, which is the spirit of active usefulness, perseverance, cheerful discharge of duty, kindness and forbearance! It is in the last virtues especially, that we are, or should be, strengthened by the unaccomplished visions of our youth; for, who shall say that they are not our teachers to deal gently even with the impalpable nothings of the earth! 

Therefore, as we grow older, let us be more thankful that the circle of our Christmas associations and of the lessons that they bring, expands! Let us welcome every one of them, and summon them to take their places by the Christmas hearth. 

Welcome, old aspirations, glittering creatures of an ardent fancy, to your shelter underneath the holly! We know you, and have not outlived you yet. Welcome, old projects and old loves, however fleeting, to your nooks among the steadier lights that burn around us. Welcome, all that was ever real to our hearts; and for the earnestness that made you real, thanks to Heaven! Do we build no Christmas castles in the clouds now? Let our thoughts, fluttering like butterflies among these flowers of children, bear witness! Before this boy, there stretches out a Future, brighter than we ever looked on in our old romantic time, but bright with honour and with truth. Around this little head on which the sunny curls lie heaped, the graces sport, as prettily, as airily, as when there was no scythe within the reach of Time to shear away the curls of our first-love. Upon another girl's face near it, placider but smiling bright, a quiet and contented little face, we see Home fairly written. Shining from the word, as rays shine from a star, we see how, when our graves are old, other hopes than ours are young, other hearts than ours are moved; how other ways are smoothed; how other happiness blooms, ripens, and decays, no, not decays, for other homes and other bands of children, not yet in being nor for ages yet to be, arise, and bloom and ripen to the end of all! 

Welcome, everything! Welcome, alike what has been, and what never was, and what we hope may be, to your shelter underneath the holly, to your places round the Christmas fire, where what is sits open- hearted! In yonder shadow, do we see obtruding furtively upon the blaze, an enemy's face? By Christmas Day we do forgive him! If the injury he has done us may admit of such companionship, let him come here and take his place. If otherwise, unhappily, let him go hence, assured that we will never injure nor accuse him. 

On this day we shut out Nothing! 

"Pause," says a low voice. "Nothing? Think!" 

"On Christmas Day, we will shut out from our fireside, Nothing." 

"Not the shadow of a vast City where the withered leaves are lying deep?" the voice replies. "Not the shadow that darkens the whole globe? Not the shadow of the City of the Dead?" 

Not even that. Of all days in the year, we will turn our faces towards that City upon Christmas Day, and from its silent hosts bring those we loved, among us. City of the Dead, in the blessed name wherein we are gathered together at this time, and in the Presence that is here among us according to the promise, we will receive, and not dismiss, thy people who are dear to us! 

Yes. We can look upon these children angels that alight, so solemnly, so beautifully among the living children by the fire, and can bear to think how they departed from us. Entertaining angels unawares, as the Patriarchs did, the playful children are unconscious of their guests; but we can see them, can see a radiant arm around one favourite neck, as if there were a tempting of that child away. Among the celestial figures there is one, a poor misshapen boy on earth, of a glorious beauty now, of whom his dying mother said it grieved her much to leave him here, alone, for so many years as it was likely would elapse before he came to her,  being such a little child. But he went quickly, and was laid upon her breast, and in her hand she leads him. 

There was a gallant boy, who fell, far away, upon a burning sand beneath a burning sun, and said, "Tell them at home, with my last love, how much I could have wished to kiss them once, but that I died contented and had done my duty!" Or there was another, over whom they read the words, "Therefore we commit his body to the deep," and so consigned him to the lonely ocean and sailed on. Or there was another, who lay down to his rest in the dark shadow of great forests, and, on earth, awoke no more. O shall they not, from sand and sea and forest, be brought home at such a time! 

There was a dear girl, almost a woman, never to be one, who made a mourning Christmas in a house of joy, and went her trackless way to the silent City. Do we recollect her, worn out, faintly whispering what could not be heard, and falling into that last sleep for weariness? O look upon her now! O look upon her beauty, her serenity, her changeless youth, her happiness! The daughter of Jairus was recalled to life, to die; but she, more blest, has heard the same voice, saying unto her, "Arise for ever!" 

We had a friend who was our friend from early days, with whom we often pictured the changes that were to come upon our lives, and merrily imagined how we would speak, and walk, and think, and talk, when we came to be old. His destined habitation in the City of the Dead received him in his prime. Shall he be shut out from our Christmas remembrance? Would his love have so excluded us? Lost friend, lost child, lost parent, sister, brother, husband, wife, we will not so discard you! You shall hold your cherished places in our Christmas hearts, and by our Christmas fires; and in the season of immortal hope, and on the birthday of immortal mercy, we will shut out Nothing! 

The winter sun goes down over town and village; on the sea it makes a rosy path, as if the Sacred tread were fresh upon the water. A few more moments, and it sinks, and night comes on, and lights begin to sparkle in the prospect. On the hill-side beyond the shapelessly-diffused town, and in the quiet keeping of the trees that gird the village-steeple, remembrances are cut in stone, planted in common flowers, growing in grass, entwined with lowly brambles around many a mound of earth. In town and village, there are doors and windows closed against the weather, there are flaming logs heaped high, there are joyful faces, there is healthy music of voices. Be all ungentle-ness and harm excluded from the temples of the Household Gods, but be those remembrances admitted with tender encouragement! They are of the time and all its comforting and peaceful reassurances; and of the history that re-united even upon earth the living and the dead; and of the broad beneficence and goodness that too many men have tried to tear to narrow shreds.

 I hope you're sleeping soundly, but if you can still hear me, this has been Underground Confidence with Shelley Treacher. Next week, I'll be back with another Christmas story.

Thank you for listening. See you on Thursday.