In my Al-anon 12-step program I have learned about "detachment with love." In my first writings on detachment I said I preferred to turn the words around so they read "with love, detach." To be certain it isn't that hard to detach in anger or without love. But with love, now that's a different story. Loving detachment can be hard; very hard.

I have learned that healthy detachment is neither kind nor unkind. It is done without judgment of the alcoholic. It is just the process where we remove ourselves from the bad effects created by alcoholism. Detachment not only stops us from enabling the addict, it upsets any notion that we are victims or martyrs of another person's actions. It frustrates self-pity and our concentration on what another person is doing to us. Instead our focus is placed on our own lives.

My sponsor asks the question from time to time: "Who is crazier, the alcoholic or the one who lives with the alcoholic?" The alcoholic's routine and patterns become somewhat predictable and can be anticipated. But the non-alcoholic who lives with them can become really unpredictable and crazy as we quickly try one cure after another, flying from one extreme to another in our pursuit of another person's sobriety. All the while we jump from idea to idea without any real organization or methodology to keep things stable. Much of the time this is done while we feel victimized or put upon by the entire mess. We feel like we're responding to what life is throwing at us instead of taking an active role in how we face life.

I started attending Al-Anon meetings one year and three weeks before my wife died battling alcoholism. It took every minute of that time to develop even a rudimentary process of detachment with love. It was really hard work. I had to become aware that my qualifier's actions weren't about me. This wasn't something she was doing to me or because of me. I also had to accept that I was truly powerless over her alcoholism. I didn't cause it, I couldn't control it, and I couldn't cure it.

I describe detachment to my Al-Anon friends by talking about a ping pong game. Alcoholism serves the ball across the net onto my side of the table and I hit the ball, returning the serve. Then alcoholism hits it back to me a little harder, so I return it harder. And so on. Without any thought whenever alcoholism smacked the ball over the net onto my side of the table I jumped into action and sent the ball back. Detachment happens when I set the paddle down on the table and walk away. This in no way stops alcoholism from serving the balls. But after a while I can let those balls fall onto the floor or go zinging by without so much as a flinch. At that moment both my qualifier and I am healthier by far.

But for me alcoholism took a sinister turn when it took my wife. When she died I fell into a dark night of the soul. What I had mastered so well in detachment with active alcoholism didn't seem to matter anymore. Certainly without alcoholism in my home I didn't need to expend energy in detachment any longer. Right? Here is where I stumbled for a while in the fog.

I must provide a disclaimer at this point because I am not trained in psychology nor am I equipped to give advice to someone in deep grieving. I can only record my own thoughts and experience for your consideration. This is about my own experience. Take what you like and leave the rest.

Alcoholism's effect on me did not die with my wife. Loosing the most important person in my life hit me hard. I fell down. Every fiber in my body hurt with a pain I'd never known before. I couldn't eat, sleep, or function any longer. An event so unimaginably tragic overwhelmed me with a crippling hold.

Dealing with the pain and trouble my wife's death created took me to a dark, lonely place. I felt like my wife's death had "happened to me" without my consent or control. Self-pity and martyrdom set in with kind of a predictable cycle. I had forgotten to consider the part of my grieving that is in my control vs. the part I have no control over. In some ways I had let alcoholism draw me back into the ping pong game. I was reacting to each new volley of pain.

Of course to pretend I can control my grieving process is nonsense. But, and this is where the fine line lies, I do not have to be the victim or martyr in my grieving process. On the one hand I must face the raw, awful, unpredictable pain my loss has brought me. On the other I must recognize when my own thinking is needlessly increasing my trouble. For me this happens when I become comfortable with the pain - or when the pain starts to feel normal, or even welcome (as strange as it sounds the pain of grief can at times feel like a deserved punishment that pairs with my own misguided feelings of guilt).

One method I've learned that helps me with this comes from a reading in a relatively new Al-Anon book on grieving. In it a writer suggests the idea of grieving in 15 minute increments. The idea is for me to grieve fully and hurt completely, but every now and then I come up for air and make a conscious decision about whether I need another 15 minutes to grieve or not. This may go on for hours. But eventually, when I sense it is time, I can redirect my focus on more positive memories. I can find something to be grateful for. Or perhaps it is enough to simply quit crying for a while and tend to my body's welfare. And in that moment I can tell alcoholism I have set the paddle down. I'm not playing anymore. I am neither a victim nor a martyr. I will survive.

I received the most incredible email from my daughter today. It affected me to my core. I want to share it with you because indeed it has helped me see good in the bad. Here is what she wrote:

"Hey there,

Good to hear from you! Sorry to hear that you are having a hard week.
Hang in there though. It has to get easier. It's hard enough when you are already hurting from the loss of mom and then to have other things kind of go wrong too makes it even harder.

The other day I was looking at this puzzle my friend is working on when we were up at their house. I had this thought that our lives are kind of like one big puzzle...

Sometimes our puzzle is put together and looks all pretty.. those are times like when you get married.. or have your kids.. or walk your daughter down the isle.. and see your grandkids for the first time..

And at other times we might be missing a few pieces here and there.. i think teenagers are probably a good example of those times.. both when you are going thru them and when you are raising one..

Or when a corner piece falls off or you can't find the two pieces that are under the couch... when you change your job or try and make new friends or move across country.. or when you have a newborn that is waking up in the middle of the night or a puppy that peed on the floor.

But then there are times when something comes along and just knocks over the entire puzzle... and all the pieces fall on the floor and you just have to start all over again.. i would say mom's death is a good example of this. it's when you wake up and it's a beautiful day outside but there are tears running down your face.. and you feel hopeless and can barely find the strength to get out of bed. This is when there are a million little pieces of your puzzle scattered all around you but you can't find the right pieces to even get the puzzle started all over again. you can see the pieces; you just can't pick them up. at times you don't want to pick them up. it's like you are broken....

It's ok to be broken, but I have a hard time because i want to help fix you. but there is nothing wrong with you. what you are feeling is completely normal!! and i realize all i can do is encourage you to try and move forward. it's ok to hurt.. it's good. it's normal. it's hard though. and there are people who will help you thru this. and it is during those times when you need to call your friends in the middle of the night just to hear their voice tell you it's going to be ok.. and that tomorrow will get better. just sit in a room and talk with someone.. even if it seems you are rambling on and on.. Go to the support group at the hospice for survivors of a suicide. I know that would mean admitting that it was a suicide.. and yes, that is very hard.

but it would be kind of like admitting mom was an alcoholic.. and that was a huge step for you. but that gave you freedom to start your recovery. there will be people there that will help you understand the feelings you are having.

But you see, slowly you can start picking up the pieces, one piece at a time... just pick one up and put it on the table.. then you will look at it for a little while .. the next day pick up another piece.. then you will have two pieces on the table.. pretty soon you will have a handful of pieces and one will fit into another. and maybe a friend will come by and put a few pieces up there for you. pretty soon your puzzle will start looking like a picture again.. this time though there may be a few big sections missing... but it will still be together .. and with your friends and family .. and a little glue .. it can stick together. and then you are no longer broken."

Some time ago there was a commercial on television that featured a little old lady who had fallen, and who couldn't get up. The commercial promoted some remote contraption with a button you could push to summons help. The commercial made popular the phrase "I've fallen and I can't get up!"

I am now four and a half months out from my wife's death. In recent weeks I had seen a healthy healing where I was slowly standing on my feet again. But suddenly I'm that little old lady on the floor crying I've fallen and I can't get up. I am so hurt and broken. I just feel like I can't go on.

Over the past year and half while attending Al-Anon meetings I have made some very good friends. One in particular, a lady, helped me in the healing process. About a month ago we sat down and had a heart to heart and discovered that we had a mutual interest in developing a closer relationship. She is a doll, and the honesty we shared was incredible. She's been in program a lot longer than I have, and she knew her way so well.

This past weekend she told me she was backing away from me. I am uncertain what she said, but I am quite sure what I heard. Sadly I know what was said and what I heard were two different things. But what I heard cut me to the quick. It was as if she pulled out my heart and handed it to me while it was still beating.

When it happened I simply thanked her for her honesty and we parted quietly. But the day that followed in my life was anything but quiet. There is a good reason that so many writings and teachings on grief tell us to stay away from important decisions or romantic relationships during the season of grief. But somehow I thought I had gotten enough healing, and that I had come far enough from the funeral, that I could safely move closer to a dear friend. I was wrong.

For some reason I still make daily trips to the cemetery. There is a magnetic pull that leads me there. I sit in the grass beside my wife's grave. Some days I talk to her, and God. Other days I just cry, or meditate, or just sit. As a man of reason and intelligence this activity makes no sense to me. I know she's not there. And I know I cannot have her back. But when I'm sitting there I am safe, alive, and ok.

My lady friend was troubled by my grieving process. She can't understand my need to return so often to the cemetery. She doesn't understand why I can hurt in my loss when I have the joy of this new friendship. She can't compete with a ghost, and that really says it all. She is afraid to love me because I am still so terribly broken.

I struck out at my new companion last night. I lashed out with a toxicity that she didn't deserve. I destroyed any hope of a continued relationship with her. It isn't her fault. She is truly an amazing person. But I hurt her back with some of the awful pain I am feeling.

Then I saw it. Underneath a thin veneer of healing turf there still lies a cesspool of raw, ugly, unmitigated pain. I have a whole treatment-plant worth of shit inside of me just waiting to get out. I am really a toxic person.

So how will I heal? How will I love again? How will I ever get up from this place I have fallen?

This morning during my trip to the cemetery what had been safe suddenly scared me. As I sat there crying I looked at the plot beside my wife, the one I purchased for myself, and wondered. I am so tired of hurting. I am all cried out. Just when I thought I was healing I fell, and I fell badly. Would it be better to just join my wife?

That moment scared me enough I called a grief counselor. She told me it isn't uncommon to have thoughts like this, but that wasn't all that reassuring to me. But, I do know I want to be okay again. I want to love and be loved again.

I think maybe I'm just in too much of a hurry. I need to be more careful with my fragile self, distancing myself from situations where I can hurt another person so much, and in so doing hurt myself again.

Although I am laying here on the floor hurting so much, unable to get up, once again I need to summons the courage to push the damn button on the remote to call for help. "Help me God! I've fallen and I can't get up!"

There are hundreds of books about grief and mourning. Contemporary writers often list the steps or stages someone goes through following the death of a loved one. Seminars are held, meetings gather, and counselors are trained apparently with the hope that if we all know the script it will somehow be easier to follow.

Arguably there is some healing that takes place in the grieving process because these theories and stereotypes are discussed. The human lot is usually afraid of the unknown. So as we stand terrified, trembling with our tears, we lose our grip on tomorrow and have trouble taking our next breath. Reading the show's program to see what lies ahead quiets our minds and lessens our fear, but there is also the potential that the expectations created by these future-telling lessons may bring more sorrow, or even resentment.

My own grieving process has, for me, debunked the books. In fact as I cried out in absolute pain or struck out with a primal anger, having someone pat me on the back saying this is all "normal" did anything but offer familiarity or comfort. There is positively nothing about grieving that is normal. It just sucks.

Most common day approaches define 5 stages of grief: Denial, Anger, Bargaining, Depression, and Acceptance. There is an approach that lists 4 steps: Shock, Denial, Anger and Resolution. Another approach that is probably more apt has just 3 steps: Numbness, Disorganization, and Reorganization. But if I was to define the stages of grief based on my own experience right now it would be something more like the 3000 stages of grief. That's because there have been about 3000 hours since my wife died and every hour has been a different, unique, unexpected, and completely consuming step in my mourning and healing process.

There is some comfort in listening to those who have gone before to know that it is possible to survive this terrible time. But there is no comfort in having your messy, excruciating, breath-robbing experience of grief categorized neatly into a few stages that allow someone else to calmly say they understand. They don't understand, and neither do I. It is beyond comprehension and it defies any stereotype.

Every grief that appears in our lives is the culmination of a bazillion events and issues. Losing a child is no doubt different than loosing a spouse. Facing one's own demise is different from losing another. Then there is the timeline involved; different in each case. There is the intensity of the loss that is intertwined with the degree of love we have for the one we are losing. And there is a library of recorded memories in our head that would fill every library on the face of the planet if they were committed to paper. Every grief is specific and individual.

I think the only common ingredient is that it hurts. And it hurts a lot. In the hurt my world becomes more unpredictable for a while. I know less, I feel more, and I cry a lot. I am more reckless because my prior restraint was contained in the relationship with the one I lost.

My own experience found me writing these words in my diary: "A wide, black hole of matter has opened up in my core sucking all of the light and life out of any place I walk into. But at the same time in the overwhelming darkness my eyes adjust to see extremely faint rays of light slipping in under the door that has slammed shut. For a time it is indeed a dark, scary place.

Sometimes there is a knock at the door and someone, or something, comes in for a while. I am instantly blinded while the door opens letting the light from outside in. But as it closes again I reach to see if I am alone or if someone, or something, is there in the darkness with me now. The most warmth comes when I find the welcome hand of a friend now sitting with me in the darkness - a friend that has had enough sense to close the door and be quiet after entering my dark place.

As I sit holding hands with my grief-partner my mind sometimes shows me a brighter, warmer, day in the future when my friend walks me to the door and waits for me to open it. But for now I am strangely comfortable as my salty tears fall over my lips and the one I am with offers no consolation other than to be there with me. There are no stages of grief. Nothing is predictable. The psychology books lay useless in the dark room. The one sitting with me doesn't pretend to know what I am feeling. It is enough that I am hurting and there are no words to fix that. My friend just hurts with me."

So with those writings and these ramblings I understand more from my journey. And interestingly enough... I understand less about grief in the process.

A few certainties for me have surfaced: there is no wrong way for me to grieve. It is certainly not a predictable path. Others have hurt before me but no one can know exactly what I am feeling or going through. Nevertheless, I must take the hand of anyone who sits in grief with me and be completely grateful for their effort and concern. More importantly, when the right moment comes along I will need to walk with a friend to the door, pull it open, and see what lies outside.

I often hear a phrase in recovery that empowers me to get up again, brush myself off, and walk on. It says: "Pain is inevitable, suffering is optional." After a major emotional injury, there comes a moment where I make a choice to become a victim or a victor. It may not be an easy choice, and at first it may feel completely unfamiliar, but if I make the effort there will come a change.

For me, however, feeling the pain without surrendering to the martyr role takes determination and practice. And for me it requires a crucial ingredient: friends. My recovery, indeed my very survival, relies on a network of friends. So my program, working the steps and embracing my Higher Power (or perhaps I should say surrendering myself to His embrace), is done most effectively when I have recovery friends around me sharing my journey.

Fortunately this is a natural development of my 12 step program. Where I live a typical weekly Al-Anon meeting has 15 or 20 regular attendees, or members. As I "keep coming back" week after week to each meeting I begin to grow my family by 15 or 20. Actually, for the past year I have been attending 4 or 5 meetings every week. So my 12 step family has grown very large.

I didn't pay attention to this phenomenon early on because my reason for attending so many meetings wasn't to make friends, it was to survive. I had no idea how the program worked but my sponsor, my literature from Al-Anon, and the people at the meetings all told me to "keep coming back." One of their slogans said "It works if you work it."

Another paradox I heard from my very first meeting is written in the final reading as each meeting closes. It says that although I may not like every member there, in time I will love them, the same way they already love me. Talk about a conundrum. How can I love someone I don't like? Today, in my recovery I completely understand that statement. Indeed I have a large "love family" that has shown me a different love than I've ever known in my "blood family."

So why is this my topic on the 4 month anniversary of my wife's death? It is because this past week I have been intimately embraced by my love family. And I am quite certain I owe my life and recovery to these dear friends. In fact there are a few of these friends, both men and women, who have found their way into my very soul.

When I sit in the cemetery visiting my wife I tell her about my closest friends and what we are walking through. My memories of my wife's younger, healthier years paint an image that assures me she would like my recovery friends. And I feel her handing me a tissue to dry my eyes, lifting me to my feet so I can brush myself off, and releasing me to the embrace of the living.

Just for today I'll ask God to strip away any character defect of mine that "protects" me from the full one-on-one caress of my friends that fuels the fire of my healing. It is in this abandon that I will truly feel the warm breath of God Himself.