Today, I Grieve

My movements are a little bit slower. Everything feels a little bit heavier. The sadness starts to break through a litte bit more. Yet, there is also a lightness that encompasses it all.

Ever since I can remember, I have struggled to let myself grieve. I have reacted according to how the people around me expected. They showered me with love and understanding, and I buried any pain deep within me.

I put on a strong front and pretend that it's all ok. It all seems to be ok. Maybe this is just how I deal with my grief, right?

Spoiler alert: Nope.

I wasn't dealing with my grief at all. I would bury it. I would shut off my feelings, my attachments. I would be the one supporting the people around me. Offering hugs, kind words, gifts, space, whatever they might need.

I have always viewed everyone else's pain as more significant than my own.

As I've said before, I'm still learning how to allow myself to feel pain and sadness about a loss that isn't "mine". Not my parent. Not my spouse. Not my sibling. Not my child.

But I've come to realize that with the "not my" label I keep putting on these losses, I'm just giving myself an excuse to not feel the pain.

A few days ago, I sat in the car that belonged to my Nana. She had plenty of quirks that made me love her more than I realized growing up, and her no bullshit attitude is one that I hope I continue to take on as part of me. When she went into the hospital shortly before she passed, I laughed off the pain. I tried to hide how much it scared me that the strongest woman I knew might give up. That was the only time I have ever had so much alcohol that I blacked out and threw up.

As I continued to sit in her car, getting ready to send it off to its next life, I let myself say goodbye. I allowed for the moment of release of a material object. That car doesn't make her any less of the person she was. It was simply a reminder that she was once here in a physical form and now she's not. Her impact was left, but not because of a car. It was left because of the way she lived life. The things she did and said (or didn't say and do). The mistakes that she made, and the things she did to make up for them.

I have always been careful to not bury my feelings with a bottle. I watched it hurt too many people in my family, and I don't trust that it won't drag me down. My own way of shutting off my feelings is going nonstop until I'm so exhausted that I physically can't feel, but then also not leaving myself enough time for sufficient sleep.

I recently had a conversation with my therapist about how I don't know how to deal with grief. It wasn't the first conversation (I mentioned that loss is one of the biggest hardships and fears when we first started our sessions), but it was the first time that I felt equipped to possibly start actually dealing with it.

She provided me materials and gave me a flyer for a grief support group that was starting up soon, but none of it felt right. I took the flyer, thinking I was being resistant because I didn't want to deal with my grief, but now I'm realizing that I didn't want to be told to deal with it in some set way. I didn't want to feel like I needed to respond the way the other people did. And I didn't want to fall into my usual pattern of thinking I needed to help everyone there.

So instead, I thought about how my husband deals with grief. I observed my memories, I asked him questions, I talked about it. Recently, one of our closest friends lost her fur-baby (yes, that was this week), and my husband was instantly there wanting to comfort her. Despite his assumed lack of empathetic awareness, he is actually one of the most receptive and caring people that I know. He just needs to know the why.

Anyway, he talked about how he wanted to give her a hug, and I mentioned that she might not want that because it makes her cry and she wants to come her to forget the pain for a little bit. His response has been bouncing around my brain since he said it. "Well she probably needs to cry. I know when I was grieving and you hugged me, even though I cried, it helped more than anything because I knew how much you cared."

I helped him grieve because I cared. My mind was so incredibly unprepared to deal with this. I am the person who helps people grieve. I then started to think about all the times I refused to let people care. I have met so many amazing people in my life that are actually more amazing than I allow them to be. The number of times I have heard "I'm here for you if you ever need anything" and actually believed them is pretty astounding. I am truly surrounded by the most amazing humans, no matter how far away they are.

Acknowledging the love and support around me has helped push me to a point to release some of the pain. I know that if I fall and start to drown in my own tears, there are plenty of hands to pull me up. Plenty of boats to pull me in and let me rest. Plenty of people who understand and will allow me to not be ok.

The grief that I have refused to allow was effecting me in strange ways. I kept making excuses. "Well, so many people and animals have died in such a short time, that I just can't deal with it." "Well, they weren't as close to me as they were to so and so." "I shouldn't feel sad."

The worst one was after my parents' eldest cat, Thunder, passed away. It started with a runny eye (my cats always get this during high pollen season) which we all tried to brush off as normal. And then a few days later, he face blew up. It was swollen and hot and looked terrible. From there, the decline was fairly quick. I took my time to give her extra pets, even around her bulging face. I didn't want her to feel like her last days were unloved.

When she passed, I pretended it was fine. I had time to prepare, and that made it better. But shortly after she passed, I realized that one of my cats had a runny eye. While the worrier in me immediately assumed I had somehow passed on the cancer that took over my parents' cats face, the logic in me said, "This always happens. It'll clear up in a week."

Then I realized that those were the words I told my mother when her cat first started to get a runny eye, and guilt took over. "It'll be fine." The phrase I use often to give myself a sense of false hope when I know it's probably not fine. I mean, I'm hardly ever fine when I say, "I'm fine."

As the days grew to weeks and then to months, I finally caved and contacted our vet. I brought my kitty in, holding my breath with each exam. At the end, it was something easily treated with some antibiotics. I told the vet I had tried cleaning it with a warm towel, and pressed around her teeth, and tried to look in it, and sniffed it, and made sure she could still see. And then when she mentioned that the only thing they would have really worried about was if her face swelled up because then it might be an infected tooth, words slipped out of my mouth that I hadn't expected. "Yeah, when my mom brought Thunder in and you mentioned to her it was either an infected tooth or cancer, I watched her face."

The vet followed up with informing me that had it been from a tooth, it would have swelled up within a week. I nodded, took my kitty, and went out to pay. A few minutes later, the vet came running out to make sure that I knew what Thunder had was very different, and I wouldn't need to worry about my kitty. I laughed, of course. Acknowledging her words with an "Yeah, I know, but I worry." And in that, I realized I had neglected getting her relief because of my own inability to deal with the overwhelming grief I had been feeling.

So, my mind started to wander down the paths of the deaths that I wasn't allowing myself to feel. The one that has been weighing down on me the most is the kitten that I had handpicked (I call her T.T.) to give my parents when the neighbors cat who adopted us had a litter of kittens in our house was attacked and killed. I had watched her be birthed and cleaned and get a personality. I watched her grow from an awkward newborn to an awkward, gangly adult. I only called her by her nickname, and she always responded with her high pitched meow that sounded more like "AHHHHHHHHH" as she threw herself on the ground for me to pet her. And then she was gone. I repressed my imitation of her meow as I walked through my parents' door each week. I avoided looking at the catscratch where she laid in the sun. I tried to soothe the cat who had lost his "baby".

And when the first new kitten arrived, I had to swallow the words that begged to call her by the name of the one lost. I sat quietly, burying the pain I felt as I held the new life which would replace the one that was far too young to have been lost. Unlike Thunder, she had not lived a full life. She was just barely leaving the sassy teen phase. I tried to be patient with my own emotions. I built a cat tree for the new kitten. I sat with her and let her sleep on me. I played with her, but it still hurt.

And then second new kitten arrived. Her face and colors more resembled that of the one lost. I came over to visit, and found her in T.T.'s spot. Again, I swallowed the need to call out that name. Instead, I quietly picked up the new cat and held her in my arms. She looked at me like the stranger I was, and it made the pain that much worse. I set her back down, going to a cat that knew me and wanted my love. Then I went back to try again. I was more patient, letting go a little bit more of the fact that T.T. wasn't coming back, and then I sat with the two new additions to the family on the bed.

I observed them. I played with them. I pet them. And I let them fill a new part in my heart.

And now, I understand that grieving isn't always about filling the holes with new memories, it's about growing the ability to hold more. Eventually, the parts that are grieving a loss will become so surrounded by the parts that are thriving with love, that it will become less significant. The amount of good will overcome that pain. The more I focus on the good of the lost ones, the more it becomes a part of the good, helping the light grow.

So, even though I've found myself crying as I looked through old pictures, I am letting those tears be ok. My feelings and pain about a loss are my own, and no one else's relationships with that person or animal will make my own reactions any less valid.

I know in the moment, those words will be harder to put into action, but if I continue to acknowledge it, then I will continue to allow myself to heal.

The deaths that I've never grieved for myself that are years gone can now start to finally come to rest. The losses that aren't truly a death can be released. I can start to spread my own wings and float as the weights are lifted from me. I can learn to be free once again.