Grief Groups, Sex, and Jesus Guilt

I attended my first grief group 6 months after Brad died. It was in the basement of a funeral home in Detroit. I pulled into the parking lot - nervous and on the fence about attending - when a coffin rolled out of the building and was loaded into a hearse.

“Fuck this,” I said and debated leaving.

I was so angry at this stage in my grief. I didn’t want to be here, in this parking lot where the dead congregate. But I was also lonely. I didn’t have anyone in my life that could relate to my loss, and 6 months in, I was desperate for someone - anyone - to understand my pain.

In the 100 days that Brad went from healthy to dead, I lost my life partner and best friend. I lost my daily “hellos" and evening “good nights.” I lost my security blanket at social events. I lost my ability to do brave - and sometimes stupid - things because I always had Brad to fall back on.

I also lost my daily touch. The hand holding. The graze of a knee under a table. The brush of a foot in bed. The sex.

I lost all the tiny little ways I was physically intimate with another human.

I lost it all and now I, too, was lost.

I worked up the courage to leave my car and head inside.

It was (almost) humorous how cliche is all was. The stale cookies and lukewarm coffee on the entry table. Rows of people gathered in the pews - sitting just far enough away they weren’t forced into small talk with their neighbor. A giant Jesus nailed to a cross, starting a little too intently at me. Weathered faces, graying hair, and, what I imagined, purses full of Werther's candy.

And me, the only person under the age of 65.

The moderator asked for introductions and what brought us to the basement of the funeral home that day.

“My husband, Brad —” my voice cracked — “well, he died.” It still felt shameful to say out loud.

Quiet gasps and hushed whispers.

“Oh, honey, but you’re so young,” the woman in the adjacent pew said. I hung my head and prayed to the Jesus overseeing this session that the group would move on. I couldn’t handle another look of pity. I got those looks in grocery store aisles, in the elevator of my building, at bars filled with acquaintances I didn’t know, but who knew me - or at least my “sad story.” I couldn’t handle the looks in grief group, too.

After the intros, the moderator passed out the handouts (which I have come to learn to be routine at these types of grief gatherings). She began to robotically read:

“Grief is a natural process.”

“There is no normal in grief.”

“It’s ok to be sad. It’s also ok to be happy.”

I thought about leaving.

But as the studious student I was, I sat quietly and followed along, as she approached the “Sex and Grief” section.

I sat up attentively. Finally, something worth talking about.

I hadn’t been touched in months. And along with that carnal craving came a whole lot of guilt. And shame. And disgust.

I ached for touch, yes. But I also ached for camaraderie. I wanted to know I wasn’t alone in these feelings. I wanted to know that what I was feeling was normal. I wanted to be told, “It’s okay.”

The first time a man hit on me, I cried. He asked me to dance in a sweaty, crowded bar, then glanced down at my ring, and asked where my husband was. As I sobbed in the bathroom, I not only felt devastated for my loss, I also felt like I would never again desire a man who wasn’t Brad.

For months after that, I wrestled with these two opposing emotions: never wanting another man to look at me and also wanting one to crawl into my bed, and - pardon my language - fuck me (and then immediately leave).

I was a mourning widow and I was a 30-something with a desire to be touched. The latter felt like a betrayal to the former.

I felt like a horrible human being and an even worse wife.

And I felt alone.

The moderator continued reading.

“Sex and grief,” she paused, scanning the room. I held my breath, curious - no, DESPERATE - to hear other’s thoughts. I leaned in just a little bit closer.

“Well, we don’t need to talk about that” and she continued on to the next section.

Are you fucking kidding me??

I glanced around the room and then up at Jesus. Silence.

At that point in my grief, I couldn’t imagine a lifetime of love with another man. But even as dark and deep and despondent as my grief felt, I wasn’t so buried in it that I couldn’t at least imagine the idea of one day wanting sex again. And to skip over the “sex and grief” section made me feel like I was no longer allowed to be a woman with sexual needs and desires. But instead, forced to bare the uncomfortable title of widowhood, accompanied by a lifetime of abstinence and sexual suppression.

I wish I had raised my hand then. Interrupted the moderator and pushed back. Stood up for myself and every other widow in the room who was made to feel shamed and “less than” for wanting sex. I might have come from a different generation from the rest of the attendees, but our human urges couldn’t be that different.

But as a 33 year old widow, I was already struggling with being an “outdsider.” Struggled being stared at and talked about in hushed voices whenever I entered a room.

The truth is, I no longer fit in with my peers. And standing up for myself in a deafeningly silent room of grievers meant I risked not fitting in with this group either.

I was stuck in young widow purgatory.

Stuck somewhere between conversations about babies and marriages and house projects and conversations about wills and funeral services and death.

I felt too old for my friends and too young for the widows.

I sat in my car and cried, before pulling out of the parking lot, feeling more alone than ever.

It would be a long time before I realized - and then actually believed - the simple fact that wanting sex after loss is normal. That craving human touch is normal. That wanting to be physical without being intimate is normal. That all of it is normal.

And also, somehow, it’s not.

So to anyone out there - courageously walking into their first grief group and still feeling like you don’t belong - please know you are not alone. And that whatever you’re feeling is normal, whether people are talking about it or not.

Now go talk about it.