Yesterday may have been the single hardest day I've had in a long time, Thor. It was my birthday. Just a week after we marked your birthday. And two weeks after Xanny's, to boot.
I've held it together at home and at work. I've powered through the waves of grief that seek to swamp me and ride the storm to calmer waters. But the more tranquil waters didn't come yesterday. It was finally just too much for this mama's heart to take and I crashed hard.
You see celebrating another year in my life feels so absolutely horrible when your life is done. I don't feel guilty for being alive, I am devastated that you are not. My broken heart bleeds sorrow over this simple fact; somehow the sun still rises and sets over my head each day, but its golden rays will never shine upon your beautiful face, again. How can I possibly celebrate my life moving on, marking the passing years, when you will never see another daybreak, never draw another breath, never sing another song, tell another joke, nor live out your dreams?
Celebrating my birthday seems awkward if not impossible, now. Last year I was held up and buoyed by the constant company of family and friends. This year I faced the starkness of grief and sorrow head on. It was time.
I cried my eyes out all the way home from work. I barely made it out of the office before I fell headlong into the well of grief and sank slowly to the very bottom, where I haven't visited in many months. I let it take me somewhere I could scream and beat my breast and exhaust myself of the pent-up, throttled-back feelings that had crystallized in my being. Then I sat in stillness and let sorrow sing her song through the tears that fell in streams down my face.
I sipped a beer and let myself feel everything that I've neatly avoided so that I could carry on living day to day. I watched the clouds scud in bright bunches across a gorgeous blue sky from my perch on the swing which I rocked with my bare toes in the grass. And the tears fell unfettered, unheeded and unashamed. I unpacked my broken heart and let the late summer breeze into its chambers to ease the burning agony that threatened to choke me.
We never get over it, I read that today. I already know this, but it was reassuring to read it from a professional in Psychology Today. She blasted the "stages of grief" theories that somehow imply that if we simply do the work in each stage, we will be transported to the other side of this sometimes raging and dangerous sea. She told me things I already know, but hadn't given myself permission to believe; that there is no "getting over it," that these anniversaries are real traumatic markers, that I'm not crazy or weak or depressed. My broken-heartedness over your death is part of my life story, now. And while there may be many more moments where I look "normal" than there are moments where I seem like an emotional refugee, it's still there; the all-encompassing, soul-etching, heart crushing, eviscerating grief. And it can show up anytime it likes. What a mother fucker!
Facebook lit up with bright, lovely, cheerful wishes for me to celebrate, enjoy, have a blast, be amazing…I just couldn't. I took 'em all in and smiled wistfully at each message, thinking not of myself but of the love and friendship I have with each person who took time to drop by and send me a joyful wish. A heart full of grief can still appreciate love, even if it doesn't feel like celebrating. So that's what I did. I allowed love to sit with me in the bottom of the well and let Grace find its way in, too. All those messages of love wrapped me in a warm blanket and held me safe while I let the tears fall. It may not be what everyone had in mind when wishing me a happy birthday, but the day was perfect in its agony and expression of the utter anguish I feel over your death, Thor. It was perfect because this grief is derived from and caused by the undying love I have for you.
Dad did the right thing, he brought some sunflowers, wine, and whiskey. He held me when I cried after reading his card. No one said anything about my eyes, swollen and red and still weeping right through dinner. The blessing dad said made me cry all over again. I took time to hug your brothers and enjoyed a slice of cake. I gazed at your photograph and allowed my heart to break anew with each beat.
Sometimes you just gotta go there, you know, and feel the enormity of the loss. I stand on the precipice of that abyss and leap, knowing that the universe has already put in place everything I need to not just survive, but to soar.
This morning I feel better. Still weepy, but not crushed. I'm ready to greet the day and the list of things I have to do with a quiet, wistful gentleness in my heart. Which is right where you are, my darling son.
I love you so,
Mom
I've held it together at home and at work. I've powered through the waves of grief that seek to swamp me and ride the storm to calmer waters. But the more tranquil waters didn't come yesterday. It was finally just too much for this mama's heart to take and I crashed hard.
You see celebrating another year in my life feels so absolutely horrible when your life is done. I don't feel guilty for being alive, I am devastated that you are not. My broken heart bleeds sorrow over this simple fact; somehow the sun still rises and sets over my head each day, but its golden rays will never shine upon your beautiful face, again. How can I possibly celebrate my life moving on, marking the passing years, when you will never see another daybreak, never draw another breath, never sing another song, tell another joke, nor live out your dreams?
Celebrating my birthday seems awkward if not impossible, now. Last year I was held up and buoyed by the constant company of family and friends. This year I faced the starkness of grief and sorrow head on. It was time.
I cried my eyes out all the way home from work. I barely made it out of the office before I fell headlong into the well of grief and sank slowly to the very bottom, where I haven't visited in many months. I let it take me somewhere I could scream and beat my breast and exhaust myself of the pent-up, throttled-back feelings that had crystallized in my being. Then I sat in stillness and let sorrow sing her song through the tears that fell in streams down my face.
I sipped a beer and let myself feel everything that I've neatly avoided so that I could carry on living day to day. I watched the clouds scud in bright bunches across a gorgeous blue sky from my perch on the swing which I rocked with my bare toes in the grass. And the tears fell unfettered, unheeded and unashamed. I unpacked my broken heart and let the late summer breeze into its chambers to ease the burning agony that threatened to choke me.
We never get over it, I read that today. I already know this, but it was reassuring to read it from a professional in Psychology Today. She blasted the "stages of grief" theories that somehow imply that if we simply do the work in each stage, we will be transported to the other side of this sometimes raging and dangerous sea. She told me things I already know, but hadn't given myself permission to believe; that there is no "getting over it," that these anniversaries are real traumatic markers, that I'm not crazy or weak or depressed. My broken-heartedness over your death is part of my life story, now. And while there may be many more moments where I look "normal" than there are moments where I seem like an emotional refugee, it's still there; the all-encompassing, soul-etching, heart crushing, eviscerating grief. And it can show up anytime it likes. What a mother fucker!
Facebook lit up with bright, lovely, cheerful wishes for me to celebrate, enjoy, have a blast, be amazing…I just couldn't. I took 'em all in and smiled wistfully at each message, thinking not of myself but of the love and friendship I have with each person who took time to drop by and send me a joyful wish. A heart full of grief can still appreciate love, even if it doesn't feel like celebrating. So that's what I did. I allowed love to sit with me in the bottom of the well and let Grace find its way in, too. All those messages of love wrapped me in a warm blanket and held me safe while I let the tears fall. It may not be what everyone had in mind when wishing me a happy birthday, but the day was perfect in its agony and expression of the utter anguish I feel over your death, Thor. It was perfect because this grief is derived from and caused by the undying love I have for you.
Dad did the right thing, he brought some sunflowers, wine, and whiskey. He held me when I cried after reading his card. No one said anything about my eyes, swollen and red and still weeping right through dinner. The blessing dad said made me cry all over again. I took time to hug your brothers and enjoyed a slice of cake. I gazed at your photograph and allowed my heart to break anew with each beat.
Sometimes you just gotta go there, you know, and feel the enormity of the loss. I stand on the precipice of that abyss and leap, knowing that the universe has already put in place everything I need to not just survive, but to soar.
This morning I feel better. Still weepy, but not crushed. I'm ready to greet the day and the list of things I have to do with a quiet, wistful gentleness in my heart. Which is right where you are, my darling son.
I love you so,
Mom
