I wasn’t going to publish this post but then I decided, screw it. I know, I know … I am such a broken record as I continue to mourn my Amy. Even with what is left of my grief fog, I realize I repeat myself a lot so no need to keep reading as you probably read it all before on my blog. Maybe this post is a way for me to get more of the grief poison out.
I have always been open to healing and finding hope on the other side of Devastation Day. My not so favorite advice comes from those who tell me my daughter would not want me to be so sad. Excuse me, but when was the last time you spoke with Amy as I am desperate to get on that party line?
Of course my daughter would not want me to be so sad but how many times do I have to remind everyone that grief is not a choice. It’s your mind, body and spirit’s automatic response to dealing with the loss of someone you love and who wasn’t supposed to die before you.
Here’s how I always thought it would go. I grow old and die and go to Heaven and continue to watch over my children as they grow old. My daughter is not supposed to go before me and become my guardian angel.
Parents who have lost a child have had to see and do things related to our child’s death which landed us in fetal positions on the floor or throwing up from the sheer agony of what we witnessed. We suffer from PTSD and we have visions in our mind which I guarantee you that if you had a glimpse of some of our visions, you would have a new respect for our ability to get out of bed each day.
We plan our child’s funeral. We have to accept that the worst thing that could happen, happened. We live with the whys and what ifs. And as if living with the relentless pain in our hearts and minds isn’t devastating enough, we have to justify our slow and painful grieving to some of our own family and friends.
Our view of the world is forever changed. Our identity has changed. Our families have changed. We are forced to make changes which require energy we no longer have. Changes we don’t want to make.
Oops, all of the above is my own personal interpretation of grieving the loss of my child.
So excuse me if my grief brings you down or makes you uncomfortable for a few minutes or even a few hours. And pardon me if I cry in front of you or talk about how difficult it is to live without my kid. And excuse me if I am not grieving fast enough.
People don’t just decide to cry every day and wallow in sorrow. It takes time to learn to live without your precious child and to deal with the invisible wound. My happy ever after hopes and dreams no longer seem possible and that takes time to process.
On August 4, 2013, a violent storm ripped my life to smithereens. Putting it back together seems similar to doing a million piece jigsaw puzzle only to discover that you are missing a quarter of the pieces. In many ways, I feel as though I have been disconnected from the big tree of life which holds all of the possibilities of a peaceful future. Some days I feel as though I was kicked out of this world? Could this be Hell? What did I ever do to deserve this?
Believe me, as much as I bitch and moan about people, there are very few people who intentionally want to hurt me. For those that do, I try to give them a wave of my broken magic wand of forgiveness because they are blissfully clueless. When they forecast and predict my future, I get frustrated. Oh how simplistic my world must look from where they are standing.
Yet, I still find myself earnestly searching for hope that I can aspire to feeling even “okay” some day. Sadly, the cold reality continues to sink in and hope seems out of my reach in the midst of my overwhelming despair. Now, anyway, but I have not given up.
When I am honest with those who have the courage to ask me how I am doing, seems their automatic response is to ask me if I am in therapy. I want to scream do you really think that is going to make me all better? Sure it can help sharing the deep dark secrets of how you feel about life now. Believe it or not, I keep my most painful thoughts and fears off of this blog. Even I cannot write or share some thoughts because it hurt too much. However, I am finding I can talk about it one on one with my grief counselor.
My husband always tells me that this life is over in a blink of an eye and before we know it we will see Amy again. I have admitted one of my biggest fears outloud a few times and that is will she remember me? If you knew the relationship I had with Amy, you would not understand how I could even entertain that thought. How about you cut me a break as I have no experience in living without my child so I am doing the best I can each and every day and sadly grief is not always logical.
I am open to my faith returning and giving me the peace I desperately need and pray my own ego will never block that possibility.
As time goes by, I continue to admit to being angry at the world. I also admit to wanting to isolate myself as much as possible from the ever turning world which is filled with so much of what I have lost. Further, I admit to wanting to throw myself on the ground and scream in utter frustration when anyone insinuates this a willful choice to be grieving this hard.
My question to those who presume to know the way on the other side of devastation day is where did you get your wisdom from? Then I would proceed to ask them to trade places with me for 14 months and then we will have a chat? Any volunteers? I didn’t think so …
But just to be clear from where I am standing, I am open to healing. Finding hope in the middle of despair takes time. However, if you think you know a faster way for me to live my life happily on the other side of Devastation Day, feel free to share as I am all ears.
Always remembering Amy.