Originally Posted by
mandypandy 
Still up and down a lot. Wanted to come back on here and write the stuff in my head down, because its all mangled.
With starting to drink manically again after my dad died, after a nearly 6 week break while he was in hospital and the hospice (apart from boxing day, the one time I drank). I have really mangled myself. Now, the grief and the emotion brought on by stopping drinking are getting mixed.
Self pity is abhorrent to me, mainly because it reminds me of what I'm like in drink.
Everything I read on giving up drinking, says try to maintain a positive attitude.
So I can't tell when I'm wallowing or when I'm grieving.
I wanted to put this I just read down by Kubler-Ross. To remind myself why it's not good just to brush off or push down emotion, in the name of "stop wallowing"
The Gift of Grief
Grief is the intense emotional response to the pain of a loss. It is the reflection of a connection that has been broken. Most important, grief is an emotional, spiritual and psychological journey to healing.
There is wonder in the power of grief. We don't appreciate it's healing powers, yet they are extraordinary and wonderous. It is just as amazing as the physical healing that occurs after a car accident or surgery. Grief transforms the broken, wounded soul, a soul that no longer wants to get up in the morning, a soul that can find no reason for living, a soul that has suffered an unbelievable loss.
Grief alone has the power to heal
Think of a time someone close to you experienced an important loss. Then think of him a year later. If he grieved, a miraculous shift may have occurred. If healing did not take place, it is most likely because he did not allow himself to grieve.
Grief always works
Grief always heals.
Many problems in our lives stem from from grief unresolved and unhealed.
BUT hard to know the difference, with having just stopped drinking, what is genuine grief and what is wallowing
Hi there. Slowly reading your post on my phone which is not easy! When my wonderful dad died my lovely son sent me this....it was a post on Reddit....
Alright, here goes. I'm old. What that means is that I've survived (so far) and a lot of people I've known and loved did not. I've lost friends, best friends, acquaintances, co-workers, grandparents, mom, relatives, teachers, mentors, students, neighbors, and a host of other folks. I have no children, and I can't imagine the pain it must be to lose a child. But here's my two cents.
I wish I could say you get used to people dying. I never did. I don't want to. It tears a hole through me whenever somebody I love dies, no matter the circumstances. But I don't want it to "not matter". I don't want it to be something that just passes. My scars are a testament to the love and the relationship that I had for and with that person. And if the scar is deep, so was the love. So be it. Scars are a testament to life. Scars are a testament that I can love deeply and live deeply and be cut, or even gouged, and that I can heal and continue to live and continue to love. And the scar tissue is stronger than the original flesh ever was. Scars are a testament to life. Scars are only ugly to people who can't see.
As for grief, you'll find it comes in waves. When the ship is first wrecked, you're drowning, with wreckage all around you. Everything floating around you reminds you of the beauty and the magnificence of the ship that was, and is no more. And all you can do is float. You find some piece of the wreckage and you hang on for a while. Maybe it's some physical thing. Maybe it's a happy memory or a photograph. Maybe it's a person who is also floating. For a while, all you can do is float. Stay alive.
In the beginning, the waves are 100 feet tall and crash over you without mercy. They come 10 seconds apart and don't even give you time to catch your breath. All you can do is hang on and float. After a while, maybe weeks, maybe months, you'll find the waves are still 100 feet tall, but they come further apart. When they come, they still crash all over you and wipe you out. But in between, you can breathe, you can function. You never know what's going to trigger the grief. It might be a song, a picture, a street intersection, the smell of a cup of coffee. It can be just about anything...and the wave comes crashing. But in between waves, there is life.
Somewhere down the line, and it's different for everybody, you find that the waves are only 80 feet tall. Or 50 feet tall. And while they still come, they come further apart. You can see them coming. An anniversary, a birthday, or Christmas, or landing at O'Hare. You can see it coming, for the most part, and prepare yourself. And when it washes over you, you know that somehow you will, again, come out the other side. Soaking wet, sputtering, still hanging on to some tiny piece of the wreckage, but you'll come out.
Take it from an old guy. The waves never stop coming, and somehow you don't really want them to. But you learn that you'll survive them. And other waves will come. And you'll survive them too. If you're lucky, you'll have lots of scars from lots of loves. And lots of shipwrecks.
Xx