Five weeks into counseling has confirmed that I am VERY angry and VERY depressed. Actually, this is a very normal response one year on the other side of losing a child so for those who think they know better, stop reading and do yourself a favor and stop visiting my blog because I am not magically going to get better any time soon.
My therapist recently asked me how I release the anger and I admitted that I curse ALOT. If I had the courage I would be “effing this and effing that” all over this blog. I flip the finger. Scream at innocent people driving by me (luckily with my windows up) and I pretty much have no patience for anyone or anything. Everything pales in comparison to my pain and loss. Sorry, but that is how I feel. I am no longer willing to put myself in certain arenas. Especially arenas which remind me that I am living in a world without my complete family. Because heaven knows the world is so eager to wave that reminder in my face with every step I take. In a nutshell. I am pissed off at the world because Amy is not here. Try fixing that one.
I feel as though all of the wires that were connected to keep me functioning are short circuiting. Rewind to last year when I existed in a dense fog … All I can say now is what a blessing to be in that fog and not to feel all of this pain. If someone had looked into their crystal ball, as many have, and predicted year two would be worse, well … Let me repeat myself and confirm that it is.
For the first time in my life I am looking forward to winter. Shorter days and longer nights. Less interaction with the clueless ones who have hurt me. Who am I kidding, there is already less interaction. But maybe on the other side of winter, I will heal from the pain they have caused with their thoughtless actions and words and in the spring I will no longer care. I am going to pray for those insensitive ones just like Marianne Williamson suggested in her book, Return to Love. Pushing them off of my radar will certainly be more conducive to finding a way to love around the hole in my heart. After all, they are the target I use for my anger on the other side of losing Amy, and that is the only reason they get so much of my attention. I do trust they will lose their power over me when the anger fades.
I will also try hard to remember that their reaction to my family’s loss is a reflection of who they are and has nothing to do with the value of my daughter’s life. Unfortunately, that has been my interpretation.
Recently, I mentioned to one of my friends that I am now realizing where this heavy grief comes from, which is in a secret place inside of our hearts, which is only awakened by the loss of a child. It would be my assumption that this secret place exists as a trapped door behind the deep layer of our heart which houses the love we have for our children. After all, it has been my experience that the love I feel for my children is the deepest love I have personally ever experienced. No knock to my husband and family who, of course I love, but the bond I share with my kids is indescribable. Anyone who knows me, will attest to that love.
Once the trapped door opens into that tender raw area, an invisible wound is created that only a grieving parent can acknowledge or experience. Not to insinuate that others do not experience significant pain and loss, because of course they do and I am in no way diminishing that pain. In our lifetime, fortunately, not everyone will open up that trapped door in their heart which opens the second after they lose their precious child! The trapped door of relentless confusion, despair, loneliness, sorrow and unimaginable pain which nothing in their life ever prepared them to handle.
Believe me when I say no one ever wants to open that trapped door into the secret place in their hearts. No grieving parent is a martyr. No grieving parent’s life will ever be the same as they live out the rest of their lives without their child and with their raw invisible wound.
If you have the depth and courage, take a moment and look into the eyes of a parent who lost a child. You just may get a glimpse of the invisible wound and rethink all of your theories about what it’s like when the worst thing that could possibly happen, happens. You may stop wondering why they are still grieving. You may choose your words more carefully. You may become a much needed compassionate friend. Just maybe or maybe not.
Always remembering Amy.