Forever in My Heart Friday. Week 45. There used to be a running joke between Myesha and me. One day she came home from school and I was cleaning. Not just your average, ordinary, tidy up cleaning. But the, clean the base boards, oil the wood, clean the cabinets, etc., type of cleaning. I don’t remember who died that day, but this type of cleaning used to be my stress reliever. So from that day on, whenever she walked in on me cleaning like “that”, Myesha would sarcastically inquire, “Dang!! So who died today?” This always made us both just crack up laughing.
Not a day goes by that the surreal feeling releases it’s anchors from the pit of my stomach. That sick, empty feeling that overtakes me and tells me it’s real. I yearn to often escape into a pretend world where I can find joy again. That place where I can hear her voice, her laugh, her smile, the dialect of her conversation.
There is no set time for grief. I have found that I have to let go of the concept of how I “should” feel about all of this. Because there is text book, no manual, that could possibly ever be accurate unless it contained only two words in the entire book. “Just Be”. Because even on a good day, I’m still doing bad. Knowing that grief is a lifelong process to be embraced and not feared has helped a lot. I have too since learned and tried to prepare myself emotionally and mentally as important dates and anniversaries roll around and I feel myself “dip”.
Life will never be the same but eventually you get better. For several hours, days, or weeks, you may not feel grief. Then suddenly you meet someone, or see something, or hear something, and grief resumes. For me I found a wax hand casting of Myesha’s last night while looking for something. Sitting on my dresser, where it’s been for years, so not to get broken. But the basket in front of it kept it hidden from clear view and I had forgotten it was even there. I picked it up. I held her “hand” in mine. I carefully dusted it off and studied it. Looking at every finger, the top side of her hand, the palm of her hand. I could clearly see her nail beds and make out the creases in each finger. The way her hand was positioned in the casting, I placed it up against my cheek, closed my eyes, and for a few short moments tried to remember what it felt like for her touch me. To feel her hand pressed so endearingly against my face. Last night was a hard night.
I have learned to try and take on my struggles alone as of late. If I could give my grief a new diagnoses, I would diagnose myself with “Prideful Grief”. It’s where we are too “proud” to ask or accept help. When asked how we are feeling, we have learned to live behind a facade, masking our feelings and just say “fine”, when reality we are falling apart inside. We are apt to think “I can do it by myself” not realizing how truly unprepared we are to handle this on our own. The word “proud” means to hold one’s self high, to turn one’s head. Those of us who are grieving so often do this to overcompensate for how really low we feel. We are stubborn about letting anyone know how we feel too. We shut other’s out, not return phone calls and text messages because we automatically assume that others are probably growing tired of hearing us talk about “it”. This makes it difficult for others to give us the help and support we so desperately need. But on the same hand, those of us grieving have watched people around us become uncomfortable at times and feel the need to “error on the side of caution” so as not to upset us. This just leaves us feeling more forgotten. If grief is being complicated by “pride”, the hardest thing to do is reach out to ask for help….
“You will lose someone you can’t live without, and your heart will be badly broken, and the bad news is that you never completely get over the loss of your beloved. But this is also the good news. And you come through. It’s like having a broken leg that never heals perfectly — that still hurts when the weather gets cold, but you learn to dance with the limp”
Mommy love you Myesha FIM <3 F.