“No one ever told me that grief felt so much like fear. I am not afraid, but the sensation is like being afraid. The same fluttering in the stomach, the same restlessness……atbother times it feels like being mildly drunk or concussed. There is a sort of invisible blanket between the world and me. I find it hard to take in what anyone says. Or perhaps, hard to want to take it in.
—- C.S. Lewis, A Grief Observed
Nailed it!!
To try and deny your grief stricken world is anything…ANYTHING other than how Mr. Lewis so brilliantly described it is such an injustice. Why deny yourself the very normal, natural, very human process of grieving?
I’m smack dab in the beginning of my own emotional Slip-n- Slide, but rather delve into why, let’s get into the how I grieve and to do that properly, I must start at the start. Indulge me, please.
In my family, weakness of any kind was frowned upon. Crying? It wasn’t emoting, it was viewed as nothing more than leakage from the ocular sockets and God forbid eyes should ever leak due to heartaches and disappointments common within certain stages of development.
Examples :
- Never ask for help.
- Never find yourself in need of propping oneself on anything or anyone.
- “Toddle at your own peril, you unruly two year old!!”
- “You shove that compound fracture back in place, slap some good ol’ Monkey Blood on it and quit whining. Now, get back in the chain gang!!”
It was like trying to glide down a 100 flights of stairs with a book on your head at a steady clip while not using the railing. Although, that’s why railings exist; to steady; to aid in balance.
Sometimes, a lack of balance can be used as control. It’s at the heart of gaslighting. Bad boyfriends perfected it, but parents invented it.
In my case, it was that and a severe case of ‘do as I say, not as I do’. My paters ascended and descended life with ease, as if ssfely belted in one of those chair lift contraptions. They were given so many things. Both continue to exist on the largesse of others, that’s great if you’re fortunate enough. Maybe that’s why they were so hard on us? I’m not sure. Whatever the reasoning, it sure made sticking around after high school NOT an option.
Bu here’s the reality: my parents had me for 18 years. That’s on them…..from about 18 and a half on, that was all me.
But I’ll admit that at the time, I was pretty pissed off about what I felt was the rudest abandonment of all. I didn’t realize that trying to make make sense of life without a map of any kind, was a tremendous life lesson, but tell THAT to a wide-eyed 18-year-old who just polished her shoes with the foulest smelling Shinola. You only get that concept after you’ve made the transition from child to adult child. Until then, there’s little comfort in the ‘you’re not alone’ speech.
On a slightly different note, an old college chum and I had an interesting email exchange today. We discussed manifesting hopes and dreams and how so easily that can go awry, but how and why things get so muddled was the interesting part. We discussed how both of us had gotten what we wanted in life, but marveled how it looked nothing like we envisioned it all those decades ago.
His dream was to be surrounded by books and languid days of reading and editing them in a place that was warm and dry. He got that opportunity…he still has that opportunity, but it’s hardly where he thought it would be. Perhaps, he secretly saw in his mind’s eye, that it would be as a big deal exec in a major publishing house, delightfully quashing dreams of erstwhile authors with a pen stroke. We didn’t have personal computers in 1979.
I always saw him living out his dream in this….with a pipe….and smoking jacket:
But no…that that would be reserved for the wealthy and fortunate few, such as a man named Bruce, who called stately Wayne Manor his home. Gee, some kids orphaned by a murderer on the streets of Gotham have ALL the luck!!!
I fancied myself as a network news anchor, I got to Houston and stayed there, but I thought I wanted more. I actually remember the day when I pulled a Maris Crane and sat on the edge of my bed in my slip and sighed, realizing it was simply not to be.
And I’ll end this rambling nonsense on a completely different email conversation my friend and I had: never marginalize a death. In fact, when in the presence of someone grieving, please completely remove the word “just” from your lexicon, as in it was “just” a parakeet, it was “just” a dog. It was “just” a beloved heirloom three generations old; it was “just ” a job……he was “just” a boyfriend.
Would you say to a grieving father, “He was just a son” as if a new one could be ordered via Amazon? I don’t deny losing a child is agony with a face. I’ve witnessed it in my own family and it was awful. It was such a distortion of life, but loss of all kinds has one common theme: a deep, relentless pain.
Schlepp around in the shoes of heartache before choosing to A) make a comment and B) choosing to ignore the bereaved. No one wants to be around a sad person, I get it…I’ve run from the awkwardness myself, but these days, color me educated.
The saddest, most impossible part of all of this is that sometimes, cries for help make no sound at all.