Grief Isn’t Always Sadness

Growing up, I found great comfort and happiness in making music. Ever since my dad died, I’ve been fighting to get that back. At my high school, I took part in our annual Battle of the Bands between the students and teachers. I joined the student band as a singer and bassist my sophomore year, right when my dad got sick. My dad had been admitted to the hospital right before my first performance. I didn’t realize that I was in my final weeks with him.

I recently rewatched two of my performances with the band: the one from two weeks before my dad died and the one from the year after. The differences I saw in myself were astonishing.

At my first show, I was jumping up and down with a huge smile on my face, singing my heart out (albeit off-key) and having the time of my life. The happiness was radiating off of me. I was having fun, and I didn’t care what I sounded like.

Watching the show from the year after broke my heart.

I didn’t move the whole performance. I never cracked a smile. I sang upbeat songs with no emotion behind it. My eyes were locked straight ahead and I didn’t bother to interact with my bandmates or the audience. I was going through the motions. I wasn’t really “there.”

I’d never seen such an apparent indication of my apathy until that moment, and I felt a ping of resentment. How did no one else see it? How did nobody realize that I was clearly not myself anymore? Why didn’t anyone try and step in?

I think because I wasn’t exhibiting any clear signs of distress, everyone assumed that I was okay. It felt like they thought the easiest way to deal with my lack of interest in anything was to leave me alone. I don’t think they could have ever realized that leaving me alone was a massive contributor to me losing my sense of identity.

Apathy in Grief

Apathy is a state of indifference and appears as a lack of interest or emotions. Typically, when people think of grief, they think of overwhelming sadness and heartache, constantly feeling that loss in every aspect of life. That said, apathy is just as common in grievers. It’s completely normal, and there is no reason to be ashamed of it.

People experiencing apathy may exhibit anhedonia, which is a loss of interest in the things that once brought them joy. They may push people away and struggle maintaining connections. They may be less adherent to deadlines and avoid household responsibilities. An overall lack of emotion, positive or negative, is the biggest indicator that someone may be in an apathy spell.

Personally, I fell rapidly into apathy. I didn’t care about my hobbies anymore. I dreaded going to volleyball practice, and I never improved because I didn’t care enough to put effort into it. I started forgetting about my guitar and piano lessons. In class, I would doodle on my iPad and ignore the lecture. I submitted assignments with minimal effort.

Memories started to become hazy, and I was quickly forgetting high school. My goal every day was to just make it to the next day, and the next day, and the next day. Even writing this is hard because it feels wrong to recount a period of my life that I remember so little about. What I do remember was how unbelievably difficult it was, and how I never felt like myself, but at least the pain was gone, so I allowed myself to feel nothing.

How to Help

Be there. I will shout from the rooftops until my lungs give out that the best thing you can do for someone who is grieving, whether they are dealing with apathy or not, is to be there. Engage them in conversations. Talk to them about the person who died. Invite them to things, even if they tend to decline the invitations. Ask them how they are doing. It’s okay to identify that you notice something isn’t quite right and offer support.

I remember one instance where I felt supported in school, and it’s the clearest memory I have from that time. I submitted an essay to my eleventh grade English teacher, knowing that it was poorly written, but I didn’t care enough to take the time to improve it.

That teacher reached out to me and asked me to come in after class. Begrudgingly, I went. He assured me that I was one of the strongest writers in my class, and he knew that this essay was not my best work. He encouraged me to think deeper about the topic and discussed other ideas with me for a half hour. He then sent me on my way with an extended deadline, words of encouragement that he knew my next draft would be excellent, and assurance that he would be there if I needed more help.

I walked out of that meeting with a feeling that I still can’t pinpoint to this day, but I still think about it. I recently told that teacher how much that impacted me and helped me motivate myself as I finished school. He’s still my favorite teacher I’ve ever had, because he was the only one to offer me support that I didn’t even know I needed.

If you are grieving, no matter how recent the loss, and you relate to the feelings of apathy and anhedonia, know that you are not alone, you are not “abnormal,” and your grief is still valid even if you are struggling to feel your feelings. Sometimes, grief is numbness. It can be difficult to explain to those who don’t understand. I still struggle with adequately communicating just how traumatic that time of my life was. I just hope that those who are fortunate enough to have never grieved can begin to recognize that grief does not always present as sadness, and people may need support even if they appear to be “okay” on the outside.

Even though I’ve started being able to feel things again, I’ve continued to struggle with music. I hold a lot of resentment towards myself for losing so much valuable practice time and taking so many steps backwards in my skills. I’ve been slowly trying to reintroduce myself to my instruments and allowing myself to be happy when I play them, even if I don’t sound perfect. Just like I was at that sophomore year Battle of the Bands performance.

When I first met the wonderful team here at Friends of Aine, I shared this story and they told me, “you will find that girl who was jumping on stage again. She’s still in there. She’s still you.”

That really stuck with me. I haven’t stopped thinking about it ever since that conversation. I’ve spent so long focusing on “reinventing” myself, since I can’t really remember who I was before my dad died. But I’m still the same person through it all.

That carefree, happy-go-lucky girl is me, and I will find her again, even if it takes a while.

Cate Murphy