Grief In A Box

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.