I M Perfect lady

Tag: grief

  • Where Love Lives.

    A lifetime ago, I used to go Caroling with my siblings. One year I made us all scarves to wear. The simple joys of the holidays. Being a creative person, each Christmas I would try and make them all something. Pouring my heart through my hands.

    My brother sent a text yesterday. “Happy birthday! Life is short, enjoy each day. ”  Just enough to bring them and the drama to the front. 

    No matter the words I use, they can’t comprehend my journey.  

    I started to respond, but what could I say? What words would make him and them – understand the magnitude of love, peace and joy there is away from them.

    I believe they see me as suffering in the past hurts, holding on to grudges and non-forgiveness. Forsaking this moment with a mind and heart full of anger.

    Why else remind me of the shortness of life and to enjoy it.

    No matter the words I would type or the sentiment I tried to present, he wouldn’t understand how my heart and soul are filled with light. That stepping away from cycles of abuse the brainwashed cult-like religion – set my soul free and my heart to love.

    I miss family – but not the toxic one. That family comes with generational behaviors and patterns that are near impossible to have real relationships with.

    When I look back at our blind innocence and the unconsciousness of our denial – how we dressed up the holidays to be more – to hide the truth that lay beneath.

    What an impossible task to try and make our family whole. No scarves or ornaments – made with love by me – could put a dent into righting the mess.

    Those simple fun memories are now tainted, knowing what we didn’t acknowledge.

    If only they were just joys of caroling, with fun scarves, sharing our Christmas baking. If only there wasn’t ugly truths right beneath the surface.

    A friend sent a photo of her and her 4 sisters caroling – and their mom.  It fills my heart and breaks it. Of the joy of family and the loss of mine.  A wound that will follow me always.  They are there – sometimes loud – most often a faint hum in the background of my wonderful life.

    I know there are many of us out here, who are living, loving and finding peace and joy – away from our families of origin. It is more than okay to feel the ache of loneliness and feeling sorrow when you see family being loving family. And, the holidays can be especially hard to walk in tandem with grief and joy.

    What I know to be true is that the grief just pops up here and there in the sea of goodness I live in.

    My heart can hold joy and sorrow. If Christmas wishes were granted, I would want my siblings to join me here – on the outskirts of toxic family patterns.

    Until then – I hold space where love lives.

  • Hand and Hand.

    All changes, even the most longed for, have their melancholy; for what we leave behind us is a part of ourselves; we must die to one life before we can enter another. ~Anatole France

    Somehow I missed the melancholy of change, the loss, the death of one life, in order to be in a new life.

    And felt that I was doing change wrong, for I was sad as I changed.

    Leaving behind myself I had known for 46 years, I grieved losing that part of me, as I embraced a change that would become the new me.

    In the case of divorcing my parents, I had to the let the daughter in me die. There now stands a hole where daughter use to be.

    My daughter role is no more.

    You forget to remember the old you is gone, like a phantom limb it takes awhile to feel the new normal, and there is a grieving period, where sorrow can arise in odd places, unannounced sadness pours out.

    That view of self is unrecognizable for a while, you feel strange to yourself inside, and your movements are awkward for you don’t really know what it is the new you will do.

    Even when change is for the better, for a healthier you, you still have to let go and let die the old you.
    For some reason I kept forcing my thoughts to look towards the good things, and felt like I was a failure when I looked back and grieved.

    Now I know that grieving is a natural part of change.

    And with the overwhelming amount of change I have experienced in the last 5, well almost 6 years, it is no wonder that there has been lots to grieve.

    Who knew change and grieving go hand and hand…

  • Mismatched Lives

    I will not presume what grief of losing a love one in death is, but I feel like I can articulate the grief felt when leaving a family.

    It is an odd sense of grief, almost self-inflicted, where you purposefully leave and walk into a field of sorrow and lonesome.

    You continue to keep yourself there each time you choose to not participate, you segregate yourself to solitary confinement, yet knowing others gather and go on, you become a ghost in their lives and they in yours, living walking talking ghosts.

    Your lives no longer intercede, nor are there new memories made, unless you count the new grief ones.

    The relationship has died but the body lives on.

    You become a silent witness, a ghost with a body.

    We may all appear the same, unchanged, and many have kept up their same old routine, it is only I that have left the path, one that keeps us separated.

    The separation is as complete as death.

    And even colder, I feel, for there isn’t loving feelings flowing back and forth, instead stark obvious disagreement, irreconcilable differences.

    The differences are what separate us, not death.

    Death is final the ultimate trump card, there is nothing to wish, hope or try to change. Both sides agree.

    In irreconcilable differences, sides continue to be haunted by trying.

    Trying to reconnect and trying to move on, failing to articulate and stop even trying, there never seems to be a Game Over sign.

    And you can be going along seemingly healing from the ‘divorce of family’ and a phone call comes in, a name is mentioned, a party gathers, a reminder once again of where you are literally standing, alone outside.

    Where in death people want to keep the old memories alive, I feel that when the past comes knocking it sets me back.

    Back to me having to decide again, is this a relationship I want, is this healthy for me, what has changed in their worlds, a ghost coming back to me…asking again,
    divorce or not, dead or alive, with me or not, friends or enemies, sisters or strangers, mother or abuser, a choice to once again be made.

    Nothings over, no final exit, just flowing in and out, shouting our glaring difference, daring me once again to not see, to turn away from the truth and get along. See not our mismatched selves and be a family.

    A family of mismatched lives.

  • A Willing Witness

    “…grateful for your willingness to witness our loss” is part of a sentence I read on Facebook tonight, which struck me as odd that there are two kinds of witnesses.

     

    I never thought that there could be willing witnesses and non-willing witnesses.

     

    Yet the two drastically different witnesses are exactly what I have experienced. 

     

    One is so courageous and brave, will stand by and allow you to express the darkest of fears, the emptiest of sorrows, will listen endlessly as the truth flows and the madness is wrung from your soul and not shudder and turn away.

     

    A willing witness treads into the deepest trauma’s the most anxious anxieties, and wades through sorrows crushing blows, and still is able to remain connected, eyes, ears and soul.

     

    A willing witness never turns away. 

     

    It is this courageous witness that allows us to stand taller, dig deeper and find a small thread to continue on.  They remind us we are not alone.  That our mental state is ‘normal’ coming from whence we came.

     

    I am blessed and forever grateful for my brother who has been my most willing of willing witnesses.

     

    I also have had willing witnesses that are friends, strangers, writers, renewed old friends and new friends. Ladies whose walk equals mine or are even much worse. I am filled with great warmth and loving energy knowing that I have so many wonderfully willing witnesses.

     

    The greatest gift we can give another is to be a willing witness.

  • A Caring Ear.

    “Healing the Wounded Child Within” by Charles L. Whitfield MD.  Story Telling as part of the healing process, he writes.

     

    “Telling our story is a powerful act in discovering and healing our Child Within.  It is a foundation of recovery in self-help groups, group therapy and individual psychotherapy and counseling. 

     

    Each of our stories when complete contains three basic parts: separation, initiation and return (Campbell, 1949).  Twelve-step self-help groups describe their stories as “What we were like,” “What happened,” and “What we are like now.”  People in group therapy may call it risking, sharing, participating, and ‘working’ in group.  In individual counseling or psychotherapy we may describe it by similar names and psychoanalysts may call it “free association, working through transference and through unsolved internal conflict.”  Among close friends, we may call it “baring our souls” or “having a heart-to-heart talk.”

     

    In sharing our story we can be aware that gossip and wallowing in our pain are usually counterproductive to healing.  This is in part because gossip tends to be attacking rather than self-disclosing and it is generally incomplete, following the victim stance or cycle.  Wallowing in our pain is continuing to express our suffering beyond a reasonable duration for healthy grieving.  There is a danger here that maybe observed in some self-help meetings: When a person tries to tell a painful story that has no apparent or immediate resolution, the other members may unknowingly label it as “self-pity” or a “pity party.”  In this case, while self-help meetings are generally safe and supportive, the bereaved may wish to look elsewhere to express their pain.

     

    Simos (1979) said, “Grief work must be shared.  In sharing however, there must be no impatience, censure or boredom with the repetition, because repetition is necessary for catharsis and internalization and eventual unconscious acceptance of the reality of loss.  The bereaved are sensitive to feelings of others and will not only refrain from revealing feelings to those they consider unequal to the burden of sharing the grief but may even try to comfort the helpers.

     

    Our story does not have to be a classical “drunkalog” or long in length.  In telling our story we talk about what is important, meaningful, confusing, conflicting, or painful in our life.  We risk, share, interact, discover and more.  And by doing so we heal ourselves.  While we can listen to stories of others, and they can listen to ours, perhaps the most healing feature is that we, the story teller, get to hear our own story.  While we may have an idea about what our story is whenever we tell it, it usually comes out different from what we initially thought.” 

                    Charles Whitfield

     

    My story telling began in journals to myself, and eventually I was daring enough to have a blog.

     

    I do know the ‘risk’ it takes to stand and speak about your journey, and also the benefits to being heard.

     

    The biggest part of the storytelling is to have compassionate, caring, listeners.

     

    My blog seems to be that.  It is always available for me to place another bout of confusion down, a new wave of understanding, a twisted and unraveled past hurt, a present moment of disbelief, my blog is my group therapy.

     

    I also love that I have some faithful group members that willingly share parts of themselves with me and give me feedback so that I know I am being heard.

     

    All it takes is one ear and you can begin to unload mountains of grief even if the ear is online and it changes from day to day.

     

    I want to thank all the faithful ears out there who read, comment and allow me to share my story as my life continues forward, as I learn about my past and how it still affects my nowadays.

     

    A storyteller with out a listener will not work.  We need the listener, we need to know another soul is hearing us, can see us, and understands.

     

    The healer is a caring ear…