Lately there have been a few random experiences/interactions that have got me thinking about my mother–or more specifically, the drawn out emotional roller coaster that ultimately ended in her passing away. Yes, it’s been 4+ years. But I think even I was afraid to admit how truly tragic and heartbreaking the whole thing was–I don’t know that my head or heart or soul was ready to process it all.
I’ve recently realized that this, combined with not ever really “dealing” with the grief has led to a completely unintended (but wholly understandable) consequence: I am an eternal pessimist. Without fully processing what happened to my mom (and in turn, what happened to me), I made it into something reasonable, something common, something that could happen again at any time. Thus, the pessimist’s mantra: the worst is yet to come. I have to think this way–it’s the only way to even remotely prepare for the pain and suffering that lies ahead. But yesterday I had a wonderful, freeing thought:
I have already gone through the hardest thing I will ever have to experience in my life.
The story I have told myself about the future heartache I will encounter is a lie. Now, I can add all kinds of qualifiers to that statement (hopefully/probably/likely/reasonably). But here’s the thing–the reason I’ve been afraid to admit that to myself is because it feels like I’m asking for it. Asking for the universe to say “hard? You ain’t seen nothin’ yet.” (In fact, part of how I “got over” my grief was by reading stories of people who had it ten times worse. It may sound depressing as hell, but it helped. My mom died? Oh. So did that African child soldier’s mom. As well as everyone in his village. Morbid, I know). But I feel like that fear has trapped me; held me to always assume that the next hardest thing is just around the corner. This has manifested itself in small and big ways, most notably always assuming the absolute worst will happen in a given goodnews-badnews situation, but also developing a series of unreasonable fears or anxieties. I’m scared of riding in cars when I’m not the driver (always assuming that the person next-to/in front of-behind us is drunk or texting or asleep and is going to hit us). I tend to believe my plane might crash, tiny cuts or bumps on the dogs are deadly, or that every phone call from a 509 area code will be news that my father has passed. I can’t even imagine the crazy that might ensue when I have kids. It’s exhausting.
In this state of constant vigil, always being prepared for the worst, I’ve stopped enjoying the best. I fear that I have let my mother’s death break me–or at the very least, change me in a way she never would have wanted.
And that’s not ok. My mom’s reach and ability to guide and change me did not end with her death, and I can’t let this be the last lesson she gives me. I think that in order to take the first step, I need to give myself some credit. I need to acknowledge that I went through a really hard/heart-braking/tragic/SHITTY thing, and that it’s ok to be sad about it. It’s ok to grieve. And it’s also ok to reasonably expect that I will not have to go through something like that again (but know that if for some unfathomable reason I do, I can make it through). I think the first step in that is sharing what happened. I need to put it out there in the universe and not feel like I’m whining or complaining but rather that I’m simply saying and accepting what I went through as my mother was dying, and what I went through after she ultimately passed. I need to accept sympathy and I need validation that yes, it was indeed hard/heart-braking/tragic/SHITTY and all of the other hard/heart-braking/tragic/SHITTY things in the world don’t take away from that. They can all be hard/heart-braking/tragic/SHITTY–there’s enough of it to go around.
But then I need to acknowledge that the I dealt with it the best way I could, and that I did a fine job taking care of myself and my family in the aftermath. I did as well as anyone could have expected, and I need to let go of some guilt there. I need to forgive myself for the feelings and thoughts and actions that I’ve been holding over myself since March 18th, 2009.
Then I need to change the script in my head (though at this point I can’t really imagine that step–I’m hoping 1 + 2 will make it easier to envision.)
It’s been long enough that I’ve let this grief monster hold on to me. My mom loved me with all she had, and while she wasn’t perfect, she was the best mom she knew how to be. She raised me to be a competent, passionate, hard working lady, and I know that the way I’ve processed all of this isn’t doing justice to her. Her death was a chapter in my life–an important one that affects the plot in a deep way–but it shouldn’t dictate the ending.
That’s for me to write.
The Ocean in a Drop 