Big hugs to you, GE, and all those who have lost someone.

I’m sorry you’re experiencing such a difficult time–during moments of grief what works for me is structuring my comfort eating (not in a punishing way, but in a gentle loving way that embraces what’s happening). I become my own (fantasy) parent, heeding–welcoming–the sound of my own voice.

When I want to eat scads of ice cream w/ honey roasted & salty peanuts and drink icy martinis and scarf back bags of salt & vinegar chips and Ghiradelli brownies and endless loaves of toasted sour dough dipped in peppery olive oil, I present it to myself in a soothing, internal voice that urges me to eat, as well as love myself in other ways (i.e., “You’re so smart, Lola: it’s good that you want to eat certain things–you’re taking care of yourself, and that’s so smart–maybe a walk first? And a good book in a hot bath, alongside the brownies?” And if I rebel against the walk or book or whatever, no problem: the voice still praises me for the choice I’ve made).

It sounds like cheap, 80′s ladiez magazine bullshit (“DO take a bubble bath with candles!”) but consciously invoking an understanding and loving parental voice encouraging the use of food (instead of pissing all over you for eating) , while also including other things to heal you, can make all the difference.

Because–in the end–if your heart is breaking over loved ones now forever in a grave, you might as deploy your hunger with awareness & love & gratitude that you can still hunger for *anything*–while also feeling a sense of awe and respect for an appetite still awake and alive during your grief–to eat, to live, to taste: to remember those you mourn through the act of speaking softly & tenderly to yourself, even as you lift a spoon to feed your mouth & heart, to ease body and soul.

I completely agree with TC. You can even say “I’m so sorry, and I don’t know what else to say,” and your friends will appreciate that you reached out. Your friends may also want to talk about the person they lost; being a willing ear is also a very kind and generous thing to do.

Of course, be gentle with yourself regardless. Grief is hard.

Should there be no physical issues that make it hard for you to move around, I do echo other people’s suggestion about walking (or swimming or dancing!) I have found that movement really strengthening, but sometimes putting myself back in my body has brought up more grief. The advice my mother gave me which proved invaluable was this: “don’t worry what you look like: let your emotions come”. I went for several long walks during one particularly grief heavy time of my life that ended with me sobbing on park benches. It really *helped*, even though it was odd: I needed to walk, but I also needed to feel free to grief.

Speaking only for myself, it’s never been exactly what anyone said, it’s that they said it. So many people don’t say anything because they don’t know what to say, so nothing is said. And even though it’s almost always not the intent, silence often comes across as indifference.

It’s not about the eloquence or originality; it’s about the sentiment. The two most important things people have said to me during times of grief were “I’m so sorry” and “how are you doing?”. They meant the world.

My condolences go out to you, i have a very close relationship with my dad, so I can only imagine the pain you’re going through.

As far as comfort food goes, I’ve heard chocolate is good for producing extra serotonin.

I’d spend my days eating whatever I wanted, and whatever my body craved. I wasn’t even aware at the time that I was substantially increasing my usual amount of food, and it was after his funeral that it all suddenly hit me when I realised I’d gone up a dress size.

Here’s the thing, though: no one can tell you that you will or will not gain weight, and Aunt Fattie is right when she says that you do not need to worry about that, right this minute (or ever, really; weight gain is not by definition a bad thing). The loss of a loved one knocks your world sideways, and if you need to eat more to feel some measure of comfort, I don’t see why you should take that comfort away just because we’re told by others that comfort eating is ‘wrong’, as if it’s some kind of moral failing.

By getting back to my usual routine, by getting active again, AFTER I processed some of my grief, I lost the weight I gained. But, most importantly, I felt better in myself. Having that time to grieve in my own way made my personal healing more natural than if I’d tried to fight my body at a time when I was deeply unhappy and stressed.

I am so sorry for what you are going through, and my heart goes out to you and your family. Please know that what you’re experiencing now happens to many of us, and that it is something you can process and deal with only when you are ready to do so.

GE, please remember to love yourself a whole, whole lot, and surround yourself with as many loving people and animals as you can.

And please, try not to push yourself around about how you should feel or should be reacting. This sort of thing will seriously mess you up, so it’s okay to not really know where you’re at. Just give yourself room to feel and just . . . be. Give yourself permission to be really weird for a while. It’s okay.

Meh. I’m babbling. I just want to give you hugs and tell you that I am so very sorry that you have to lose someone you love.