I don’t know if this is the way of other mama’s hearts but mine always accuses me when I try to take it easy.
Maybe it’s a lifetime of a too long list of chores and a too short day in which to do them, but I’m uncomfortable sitting down, doing nothing.
If I try to take a minute, my mind races until my hand reaches for a piece of paper and begins to jot down things I need to do.
Shoot-even as I fall asleep I’m usually planning what my day will look like tomorrow!
As I’ve written before, it is tempting to fill every minute trying to avoid the pain and sorrow of missing Dominic.
But it’s not a healthy way to deal with grief.
And moving ever closer to the anniversary of the date Dom met Jesus, the temptation grows stronger and stronger.
Just. stay. busy.
Just. don’t. think.
What I NEED is solitude and space. What I NEED is freedom to cry (or not!). What I NEED is less doing and more being. What I NEED is to face my feelings, process my feelings, journal my feelings, pray through my feelings and to do the hard work grief requires.
What I NEED is to treat myself the way I would treat one of my children in distress.
It’s not really that I always see the glass half-full, it’s just that somewhere, early in life, I learned to be thankful I had a glass.
So when faced with a challenge or problem or even devastating circumstances, my first thought is, “What resources do I have available to address this?”
I used to be able to take Negative Nellies in stride.
I could brush off their comments like gnats in the summer.
Annoying, but ultimately powerless to do me harm.
And I used to spend a lot of time cheerleading for others-trying hard to help them see that whatever situation THEY were in was not as hopeless as they thought.
I tried to encourage friends, family and even acquaintances to use their own deep resources to tackle a problem.
But somehow, in this Valley, surrounded by high mountains and with an unlit path winding long before me, negative talk, action and attitudes are on my nerves.
Instead of merely being an annoyance, it feels like these folks have tapped into whatever strength I have left and are draining it through a straw.
If I stick around too long, they will drain me dry.
So I turn and run when I can.
Call it cowardice.
I call it self-preservation.
“Don’t try to win over the haters, you are not a jackass whisperer.” ~ Brene Brown
I’ve spent the past two days fighting anxiety and panic.
Breath caught mid-throat, chest pounding, sobs threatening, head throbbing-just like that first day 47 months ago.
A series of events broke down the defense I’ve carefully constructed that helps me make it through most days without tears.
I did pretty good.
I managed a family dinner, church and a covered dish luncheon with no one any the wiser.
Underneath it all I was barely hanging on.
I love that my words give expression to my feelings, thoughts and experience and also help others give expression to theirs. But sometimes I’m afraid that the people closest to me think that because I can write about it, I must be a bit beyond it-detached, clinical, untouched.
Nothing could be further from the truth.
I feel every. single. thing.
My heart hurts like every other bereaved parent. My brain struggles to comprehend the reality of my son’s death and a lifetime without his earthly companionship. I fight for my faith. I cry out to God. I feel lonely, misunderstood, abandoned, frightened, and so, so sad.
Don’t you justLOVEphoto filters? They can transform a not-so-great picture into a work of art.
And with our phones attached to our hips like another appendage, we are one photo-snapping generation!
But when we choose what to make public-what to plaster across our favorite social media platform-most of us are as cautious as museum curators in deciding which pictures to include and which just don’t make the cut.
We are all about personal branding (even if we don’t realize or admit it!)
Of course this is nothing new-Solomon wrote in the book of Ecclesiastes that there “is nothing new under the sun”. It’s simply that what was once reserved for the rich, famous or infamous is now available to every Tom, Dick and Harry-and their kids.
I know when I want to share a moment on my little farm or show off some newly completed craft project, I’m very careful to zoom in and crop out the messy edges of my home, my property, my life.
It’s truly not that I’m trying to “be somebody I’m not” it’s more about trying to only let people see part of who I really am.
The cute, cropped, curated photo.
Because who wants all the ragged and untidy borders of their life exposed to the masses?
I’m afraid there would be too much ‘splainin’ to do (like Ricky used to say to Lucy) if people saw it all.
I might have to own up to my less-than-perfect housekeeping or my procrastination that means I still have piles of junk on my porch nearly four years after Dom left us.
Someone might freak out that my cats are allowed on the kitchen table (where we don’t eat) because it is too hard to keep them off.
People may whisper that they just can’t understand how I live with piles of books stacked everywhere and random animal supplies in baskets by the door so they’re handy to grab on my way outside.
But when I edit the life I expose to others, I’m also limiting my opportunity to make genuine connections.
Because if the people around me think I’ve got it all together, then they can be afraid to admit that they do not.
If the folks that follow me on Facebook think my life is all giggles and glitter, then they might be reticent to reveal that theirs is shadows and sorrow. If all I ever do is talk about, post and promote the high points of this journey, then who will want to tell me that they are in a valley and can’t see sunlight or maybe that they’ve even forgotten what sunlight looks like.
So I’m going to zoom out.
Stop cropping.
Quit editing.
Be real.
That doesn’t mean you won’t see funny photos or hopeful posts or encouraging memes on my timeline.
But it does mean that I’ll be out there-big hips, messy house, piled up books and all.
Sometimes those that walk alongside the bereaved are biding time, waiting for that “final” stage of grief: Acceptance.
And some therapists, counselors and armchair psychiatrists are certain that if the grieving mother can simply accept the death of her child, she can move on–that she can get back to a more “normal’ life.
But this notion is as ridiculous as imagining that welcoming a new baby into a household doesn’t change everything.
How can all the love and all the hopes and all the dreams of a mama’s heart be squeezed into days or weeks or months of tears and sorrow?
If the people we love are stolen from us, the way to have them live on is to never stop loving them.
—James O’Barr
I grieve because I love.
My tears are a gift to the son I miss. My sorrow honors his memory. My broken heart gives evidence to the ones walking with me that my love is fierce and timeless.
Believe me, I’ve imposed my share of“Quiet Mouse” on my own kids through the years.
Raising four close-in-age siblings, sometimes that was the only way to make the last five miles home without losing my mind.
But the premise of the game is really this:I’m bigger, I’m stronger, I’m in control and you are not-so shut up.
Even if you have something important to say.
Even if you feel like you will burst wide open if you have to hold it in.
No excuses allowed. Just. Be. Quiet.
Peace at all costs.
I’ve been a quiet mouse for most of my life when it comes to standing up for myself.
Now, advocating for my children or for someone unable to fend for themselves-that’s another story. But somewhere in my formative years I embraced the message that the most important thing in the world was to keep the peace.
Even if you have something important to say.
Even if you feel like you will burst wide open if you have to hold it in.
No excuses allowed. Just. Be. Quiet.
But all this emotional turmoil I’ve been feeling since Dominic left us has uncovered layer after layer of brokenness, pain and untold stories. His death lifted the lid on the vault that had been sealed for decades.
Emotions are flying out like genies.
And I’ve come to understand that peace at all costs-when the costs are borne by a single individual in a relationship-is not peace.
It’s slavery.
I also realize that not every friendship and family tie is a mission field on which I must spill my life’s blood to prove my love for Jesus.
Sometimes laying down simply enables bad behavior and encourages bullying and disrespect.
I want to walk in love. Always.
But love does not mean I must allow other people to walk all over me.
I wish that I could mark my heart’s healing like I can mark my body’s healing after surgery-wound closes, scar remains, function returns, and forget about it.
But I can’t.
This journey is like walking those narrow ledges on the side of a mountain-doable, but requiring careful attention lest I fall off.
So far, so good.
But I hate days when my attention is drawn back to the threat of falling instead of the journey itself.
Almost three years [now four] and here I am-
still on the edge.
On the edge of an anxiety attack.
On the edge of the cliff of deep sorrow and darkness that threatens to swallow every thing bright in my life.
I’m no art historian. But I think I may have solved the mystery to Mona Lisa’s smile.
For hundreds of years people have wondered just what is behind that enigmatic expression-it’s a smile, but almost not a smile.
Her lips and eyes do not agree.
I know exactly how she feels.
Some folks think bereaved parents want to prolong the pain and sorrow they are feeling. Some figure that those Facebook posts and Instagram photos and Tweets are aimed at generating pity.
But you want to know the truth?
Most bereaved parents long to feel happy again. They want, more than anything, to have a few moments when the weight of grief is lifted and genuine joy bubbles up from down deep like it used to.
The first chance I got to ask a fellow bereaved mom, I did: “Will I ever feel happy again?”
She was honest and told me it would come, but that it would take longer than I hoped.
She was right.
Nearly four years into this journey and I can faithfully report that yes, I do feel happy. I can laugh, I smile, I rejoice with those who rejoice.
I even have whole days when I am barely aware of sorrow and longing.
But the me that was jubilant and radiantly glowing with happiness is gone.
thelifeididntchoose 