Think back on the most awful thing that has ever happened to you.
Does it still hurt? Do you still carry scars from where it pierced your soul and broke your heart?
Can you forget it? Really, really forget it?
Read the rest here: When Will You Be Over This?
These past few weeks have been challenging.
A dozen unrelated things have added up to a load I struggle to carry.
I have absolutely NO reserves.
No extra emotional or physical resources that can help me bounce back when things get tough.
None.
Every day I tread a razor’s edge instead of the broad path I used to walk.
It takes so much effort just to keep from falling off that I have a hard time looking ahead and am regularly blindsided by things I might have avoided, or handled better or made plans to endure.
So I take the hits full force–defenses down.
I’ve learned to hide it. Most of the time.
I’ve learned to lower my eyes, bite my tongue or walk away to catch my breath.
I’ve nearly mastered the art of holding in the tears.
You think I’m strong.
But I’m not.
You will hardly ever know when my heart is hurting.
But it is.
Thanksgiving has always been my favorite holiday.
My birthday sometimes falls on the day itself, and I have often been able to celebrate with extended family and friends-a full table of food and a full house of fellowship.
I love the colors of fall, the scents of cinnamon and pumpkin, the freedom from gift-giving pressures that lets me focus on the people in my life.
Read the rest here: Thankful But Broken
People see me, these years and months after Dominic left us and ask, “How are you doing?”
I come up with an answer because that’s the law of conversation-you ask something and I answer, then I ask something and you answer.
Gotta keep that ball rolling.
If it drops we are both forced to stand there wondering what to do with our bodies, our faces and our thoughts.
But right now, I don’t know HOW I’m doing.
I am definitely past the crying-every-single-day stage. The deep sense of loss still strangles me but I’ve learned to pretend it’s not there and just keep on keeping on.
I can look at his photo (most times) and not feel the sucker punch as my heart realizes-once again-he is not coming back.
Ever.
I’ve developed routines to work around the hardest part of a week-Friday night into Saturday morning-so my mind and body follow the rut like cows headed to water.
One-foot-in-front-of-the-other.
“A thousand mile journey begins with the first step” and all that.
I try to lean into the life I have NOW. The life I would have never imagined or chosen for myself but the one I wake up to every day.
There is no EASY way to lose a child but I almost envy parents whose child’s death has given them a cause to fight for. Sometimes the circumstances surrounding loss lend themselves to a crusade which at least gives a parent somewhere to focus his or her sorrow.
What can I say about Dominic’s leaving?
Don’t ride motorcycles?
Sure, but that was my position before they were ever purchased. I was always only barely able to contain my anxious thoughts as my sons went from here to there on two wheels with no protective shell.
I’ve learned to push down the pain and that means I stuff every other feeling as well.
I can’t select JUST the pain to hold inside.
So that leaves me here-not knowing how I’m doing.
Am I better?
Healing?
Or just plain numb because to feel whatever I’m really feeling is too hard to embrace?
I have no idea.
Child loss makes so many things more complex.
I wrote this awhile back in an attempt to help those outside this community understand that every. single. day. we who have buried a child face an emotional minefield of choices.
“One of the things I’ve been forced to embrace in the wake of child loss is that there are very few questions, experiences or feelings that are simple anymore.”
Read the rest here: It’s Complicated
Shame is a shackle as sure as any chains forged from iron.
And it often finds its home in the hearts of those who bury a child.
Bereaved parents may feel shame for lots of reasons:
The list could be endless-on the other side of child loss our brains pick apart every interaction, every choice, every moment that could have gone one way but went another.
Grief is WORK.
But it is impossible to make my way through the pile of emotions if I’m shackled by shame. I can’t move freely and effectively if I’m bound hand and foot by things I can’t control and can’t change.
In the midst of all this work, some bereaved parents find they are immobilized by depression and/or anxiety and need medication to help them through.
And they feel ashamed.
Can I just say this?
There is NO shame in seeking help.
There is nothing shameful about using whatever tools are available to make this awful journey more manageable.
A wise and kind doctor friend said, “Medication does not make the sorrow and pain go away, but it can calm the mind and create space so you can do the work grief requires.”
You are not a failure if you need medical help to quiet your mind. You are not weak if you take a pill to keep from feeling like you’re going to come out of your skin. You have done nothing wrong if you can’t sleep and require a sleep aid to allow your body the rest it needs to carry on.
Don’t compare your journey to anyone else’s.
You are unique. Your path through this heartache is your own.
Do what you need to- for YOU.
Shake off the shame.
From my friend and fellow bereaved mother, Janet Boxx:
“Talk to me when your world has collapsed around you. Talk to me when you are afraid. Talk to me when you can name your fears and when they are a vague Specter looming threateningly over your shoulder, unnamed but real nonetheless. Talk to me when you are afraid to take your Savior’s hand and when you are equally afraid not to. Talk to me when the ability to project a positive outlook has been striped from your arsenal of weapons. Talk to me when it becomes desperately and intimately personal. Then I will think you understand. . .”
“God is good all the time”, is not a flip statement you rattle off to project confidence in your Savior. It’s not a mantra you repeat hoping to convince yourself of its truth. Those six words are a sacrifice of praise that are torn from the depths of despair and lifted in defiance from the ashes of a life burned down around you.
It comes up over and over in support groups for bereaved parents:
Am I normal?
Am I doing alright, coping well, making progress?
Do others struggle to get through a day even months or years after losing a child?
I want to reach through the computer screen and hug each one.
Yes.
Yes.
Yes.
You. are. NOT. alone.
Labels and categories can be helpful. When cruising the grocery aisles I’m thankful for the signs that point the way to “vegetables” or “baking needs”.
But labels can be harmful when applied to people.
Thankfully public discussion rarely includes some of the ugly words I heard growing up.
And that’s a good thing.
It means we are free to talk about the things that really matter without having to clear the hurdle of offense.
This trend has yet to take hold in wider circles when speaking about or speaking to bereaved parents and other hurting people.
From the outside looking in, we tend to classify struggling hearts as either “strong” or “weak”. We apply standards based on our own experience and background to determine whether or not a particular soul is “handling it well” or “crumbling under the stress”.
The problem with labels for hurting people is that it puts extra pressure on them and lets those around them off the hook.
You probably mean it as a compliment when you say, “You are so strong”.
But I know it’s not true-I’ve gotten very good at holding it together in public and at saying all the right things when I meet folks on the street.
I can look you in the eye, recite answers to the question of , “How are you doing?” by focusing on the current status of my surviving adult children. What you probably won’t notice among the well-rehearsed lines is I never share my heart-I never tell you how I FEEL.
If I opened that vault there’s no telling what might spill out.
You walk away confirmed in your opinion that I am doing well, that I no longer need any active encouragement or ongoing prayer. I’m off the “ministry list” because I am past the point of crisis and doing just fine.
Or you may see me at a vulnerable moment and think, “She’s weak” or “She’s really struggling”.
I AM weak and I DO struggle.
If you are tired of hearing about the ongoing struggle, how tired do you imagine I am living it?
If you wish I would “get over it”-how much more do you think I wish it never happened?
You may give up because it’s too much trouble to keep reaching out. You may tuck me in the basket of lost causes because you think I’m not committed to keep trying.
It’s easy to draw a line in the sand and decide that you will go thus far and no farther in extending help or encouragement or grace because you CAN walk away.
But I am not a lost cause.
Each day Jesus meets me in my weakness and brokenness and gives me the strength I need to carry on.
And He often does this through people-people who choose to walk alongside and not label me or my journey. People who are committed to continue even when they are tired of helping carry the burden and sick of hearing my story.
Grace–abundant grace-given and received is what makes life livable.
Love, not labels is what I need.
It’s what everyone needs.
The sharp shard stabs deep when I’m unprepared.
Drifting off to sleep
Driving down the road
Doing the laundry.
He’s not here.
He’s not coming back.
His living presence is taken from me.
His smile,
Unseen.
His voice,
Unheard.
His arms,
Out of reach.
Untouchable.
And the gap widens every day
Between the last time and this moment.
No way to slow it down.
No path to go back.
thelifeididntchoose 