When Grief enters the room

Today’s meeting felt particularly special. Four of us came together in a different way, through grief, vulnerability, and the difficult work of being in relationship with one another. It was not an easy meeting, but it felt deeply important. We were not simply talking about our experiences; we were beginning to experience some of our relationship patterns within the group itself, and to stay with them together. There was something profoundly therapeutic about that. I felt proud of this community and of the courage with which people are beginning to share their inner lives and take the risk of being vulnerable with one another. One member shared that they were feeling anxious about returning to the group after being away for some time. We made space for that anxiety. Another member spoke about a difficult week in which they had experienced intense anger and rage. The anger became so overwhelming that they felt dissociated from themselves and began to fear that they were becoming psychotic again. They had recently self-published a book of poetry, Ekaant Ki Laya—the rhythms of solitude—a deeply personal work that had been slowly nurtured from within. Everyone in the group had celebrated the book with them, but the absence of acknowledgement from a close friend left them feeling invisible, unseen and deeply alone. The pain of not being recognised seemed to touch something much older.

We began to wonder what happens when anger has never really been allowed a place in our lives. This member had grown up learning to be kind, caring, obedient and empathetic—to look after others and not cause difficulty. Anger was not something they could easily express. When it came, it was pushed away, turned inward, or numbed through isolation. And perhaps when anger has nowhere to go, it can become overwhelming. It can become dissociation, despair, or even feel like psychosis. Another member reflected that the poetry book may have been particularly important precisely because it came from such a deeply personal and solitary place. When something so close to the heart remains unseen, the feeling of invisibility can become much larger than the moment itself.

Another member shared a similar experience. When they had written their own book, many people had celebrated them, but there were also people who did not acknowledge what they had gone through or recognise their recovery. Their mother only came to say, years later, “I am sorry, I see you now.” But sometimes an apology that arrives much later cannot undo the loneliness of having remained unseen for so long. As they spoke, I was struck by how openly they were able to speak from the heart. There was strength in that vulnerability.

We then decided to try something different. We did a role play. One member played the close friend who had been experienced as distant and rejecting, while the other practised speaking directly to her. At first, it became almost a long monologue—a pouring out of years of hurt, disappointment and longing. We slowed it down and tried to create a real conversation, allowing each person to respond to the other. The member practising began to say what had remained unspoken for so long: “You don't listen to me. When I was having a psychotic episode, you were never there. You don't care about me. I feel alone.” They spoke about the friendship that had begun many years ago, the nights spent talking and laughing, the closeness they once shared, and the pain of feeling that the other person had gradually drifted away.

Then something interesting happened. Even within the role play, the familiar dynamic appeared. When the other person responded with distance, the anger quickly disappeared and was replaced by pleading, appreciation and idealisation. “I really appreciate your friendship. I am the river and you are the dam. You ground me.” I found myself wondering: how quickly do we move from anger into seeing ourselves as the sick one and the other as the healthy one? How easily can we give away our own power in the hope that the other person will stay? encouraged them to find the anger again. To say, “I hate you. I don't like that you ignore me. Why don't you see me?” Not because hatred is necessarily what we want from our relationships, but because sometimes anger is the part of us that is trying to say: I matter too. See me. Hear me. Don't disappear from me.

We began to explore the difference between anger and being “mad” in the sense of psychosis. Anger itself is not madness. Rage, hurt, sadness, resentment and disappointment are all human feelings. But when anger has never been given permission to exist, it can turn inward and become despair. It can become numbness. It can become a feeling of being emotionally dead. In the role play, there was a moment when rejection was finally spoken, and yet there was almost no sadness available to feel. There was only guilt and the sense of being a burden. It made me think about how grief can sometimes be so painful that the mind protects us by making us feel nothing at all.

Another member then shared their own experience of losing a close friendship. They remembered wishing that they had been able to say some of the things we had just spoken in the role play. The person they lost had once been a kind of rock for them, someone who made them feel steady, and losing that relationship had been deeply painful. As they spoke, the room became quieter. We could feel the grief moving through us. We cried together and stayed in silence for a few moments, without trying to immediately make sense of what was happening.

There was something beautiful about that silence. We did not have to solve the grief. We did not have to turn it into recovery or positivity. We could simply remain together in the sadness of losing people, of feeling unseen, of wanting to be loved and sometimes not receiving that love in the way we need.

Another member reflected on the idea of needing another person to complete us, and how easily we can feel ungrounded or uprooted when someone important leaves. Perhaps part of the work is learning that we can hold ourselves while still allowing others to matter deeply to us. We do not have to choose between independence and connection. We can need people without making ourselves lesser, and we can love people without losing ourselves completely in them.

As we came towards the end of the meeting, I felt grateful to everyone who had taken the risk of being vulnerable. This was not simply a support group where we exchanged stories. We were beginning to practise relationships—to confront, to listen, to express anger, to experience rejection, to grieve, and to remain connected afterwards. That feels important to me. Perhaps community is not only about finding people who understand our experiences. It is also about learning how to be with one another when relationships become difficult.

>We ended by reminding one another that we can reach out when we need support, care or simply someone to be there. Today, we had touched something painful, and perhaps we did not need to carry it alone. We could pause together, let the feelings settle, and return to one another when we were ready.

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