Grief is a package. It looks different to each person who
experiences loss. Some tear the big box wide open, cutting themselves on the
sharp edges of the box, dive inside the dark emptiness and find that the box is
bigger, stronger, more suffocating than they thought. They find a way out, take
a deep breath and trudge on with their day, tripping over the large package as
the years roll by, the tears roll down. The box remains large and visible but
it no longer needs such deep exploration because the depth of pain in the box
is too big to lift out. Some people find the package in their hands, turn it
around, shove it in their pockets and feel the edges of the box scratch their
skin while they live in consummate denial and pain that appears as lashing out
or divorce, lifelong depression.
Some cherish their grief as their lost child, a
means to an end, a replacement for acceptance, a reason not to carry on but
instead they carry their box in front of them, arms tired, the box heavy,
constantly looking inside, repetitive and burning questions they scream into
Alice’s rabbit hole. Some build an alter around their box. They place their
deities, candles, and their gurus, their books, spiritual practices, faith, and
they blindly lead themselves into a false sense of identity because the box
belongs over there in that corner, and it’s fine. The box doesn’t need to be
opened fully if they just believe that the pain in the box is simply not so
real, if they focus on a god or belief system that to others may seem a
fairytale.
My package is a large box that I painted with glitter glue
and begged everyone to sign. Because she would like that. My box is deep and I
jumped in with both feet looking for answers, first from the girl I grieve,
then from the gods others believe, then I peeked out and grabbed books and
people and messages and I brought them with me into the box. I sat with words
and ideas, belief systems held strongly by people who knew my answers but who
didn’t have a box of their own.
I know a mother who went back to work one week after her son
passed on. She ran a marathon and named it after him. I know a mom who lost her
son 13 years ago and created a successful campaign to advocate putting a stop
to suicide. I know a dad who lost his son several years ago and he’s never
quite healed. All of our packages are different. Don’t think we don’t compare.
We compare. I squint my eyes and furrow my brow listening to
people talk to me about how much better my daughter is now that she’s dead. She’s
happy, now. She wouldn’t want me to suffer. God took “his” precious child or
she left this world because because because because because…… The people who
speak the most know the least. I want my box back. I go inside, close the
cardboard flaps and sit there. I do want to beat on the walls after a year and
some months. I don’t count. Some people’s boxes have calendars in them to tell
them when to be sad. I don’t want anyone to talk to me anymore. I pout inside
my box. I scream and cry. I climb out sometimes and I laugh and dance and hike
around. I see tiny miracles and engage with friends. I know my box is there but
it’s in the corner sometimes because when it’s in the way too much, I trip and
start asking, start begging for answers from people who don’t know or think
they know or who want to take my box for me so they make it up.
But, isn’t that what we’re doing? We’re making it up. You
read a book and think your answers to grief are in the book just because it
gives you permission to grieve or because it explains the stages that are
really steps you tumble down and crawl up, sit on, bound up, slide down the
rail. They’re steady, they have a loose plank, you get a splinter, miss a step,
paint them, sob while sitting on them. Come on.
I remember walking into my first group meeting with a pen
and paper. I wanted to know how. I placed my box on the table and ignored the empty
spaces where I felt someone should have signed. I brushed off the glitter and
placed my box behind my chair so that I could listen to other parents tell me
exactly how to care for my box and how to ship it back. I knew there was a way.
I knew I needed time and then off ya go, pretty colored box with the deep black
waters inside. I was almost killed by those waves and didn’t think an entire
ocean could survive in a box! So, tell me how to make this go away. I have
postage. I’m ready. I blurted out astounding words like, “Wait, it’s been 4
years and the guilt COMES BACK?!” I don’t think I was in the mail room. No one
was mailing their boxes and no one had even properly ended their need for them.
I didn’t understand.
I understand now. I understand that there are no answers to
fit everyone. There is no right way to grieve. You cannot compare packages. You
cannot write a book and THERE, people will forever be healed because there is
no here, it’s in your mind or God said my daughter had to go, so off she went
and I’m in Church because I need to pray for mercy because the world is evil
and heaven is not so there’s that. The spiritually enlightened look at the box
and tell me that my box isn’t real. Life isn’t real so my box is really love
and love and pain make pain love and it all goes away don’t you see? I do not
see as I lift the purple striped cat out of my box.
I have dragged my box to my therapist. Every box needs a
therapist, I believe. She wrote PTSD on my box and I got to erase it after we
worked together. She didn’t climb inside my box or make excuses as to why I
didn’t need it. She didn’t tell me I was misinformed about life or god. I was
in shock and the stress was too much. I needed to clean some of the pain out of
my box and tidy it up a bit so I could focus on living with a clean package
that both had its place and did not need to sprinkle glitter everywhere I went.
But, I did get to write in marker on the sides of my box. I wrote my name. I
declared ownership. I cleaned out the books and chatter of all of the
well-wishers who just don’t know what to say. I took down all of the photos of
the people I wanted to display as traitors. They never called to check on me.
They left me. They deserted me here with this box and no one wants to see it so
they act like it doesn’t matter… I almost kicked my box down those steps but
instead I vowed to keep anger in my box and pull it out while carrying logs or
riding my mountain bike. Sometimes, I ride so hard that when I stop my box is
waiting for me with some Kleenex and a drink of water. The wind blows open a
flap and allows me to see my words inside, “I’m supposed to miss her. She’s my
daughter.” I toss the Kleenex in the box,
place it on my shoulders and ride home happy. There. I processed, I cried, I
rode out my anger and I feel better. I put the box in the corner and go on with
my day.
I don’t fall into the “followers” category of jumping on to
any scripture of any book or find truth and solace in spiritual teachings.
Knowing my daughter is with me, in me, of me is a story for a different day.
But, I’m not easily led. I didn’t know a thing about loss in this capacity
until Taylor left this world. But, I know this.
You own your package. You create space around that box. You
live in it, you put it up, mark on it, write in it, fill it with thoughts of
suicide, of hope, of surrender, of peace. You get to follow any religion or
mindset that allows you to heal. There is healing. Edges become less sharp, the
stairs more steady, and you can re-decorate your box however you want. No
matter what anyone says, you have the right to your pain. You have the right to
hope that one day you’ll pick yourself up and learn to use your box how you see
fit. There is no return address on this package. You will suffer. You will ask
and ask and ask and try to find answers and you’ll never know the answers to
some questions. Your box doesn’t look like mine and you don’t want it to.
My
anchors are different and none of them are wrong. Religion, faith, hope, joy,
dancing in your kitchen. Whatever you need to feel ok one moment and then one
hour and then one day and week at a time can only be determined by you. You are
in control of the one thing you believe you have no control of; your grief. Take
your time. Make time for your Self. Take care of your Self as you would your
loved one for whom you mourn. Don’t let anyone tell you how to feel or what to
expect. I tried so hard to find THE answers. The answer is whatever you want it
to be. My answer is that my daughter will never walk this earth as my daughter
again. And, after a year and some months I continue to sob, wipe my eyes, and
carry on. Sometimes the waves are pretty rocky on my little boat in my box.
There is healing for me, though. I don’t want to talk about her 3D death
anymore. I want to explore and explode her life into being. I want to share who
she is. So, I do have a guru or two who teach me things. I listen to their
words because they don’t take my box away from me and place expectations on me
or try to rub the glitter off my package. I can’t do it alone. But, you won’t
find the forever peace you’re looking for. You’ll find joy and laughter, love
and healing. If you want to.
