Well, Hello, Grief. I didn't recognize you.

Two times now, a piece of me has left leaving a crushingly empty space in my soul.  I guess I thought I was familiar enough with grief that this wouldn't be that hard.  But, it is.  In a way, it's comforting for me to know how difficult this grief journey is for me; it means I really did intensely love my mom, that she really was an integral and permanent piece of who I am and who I will be.  That for as hard as our relationship felt at times,
her absence is not something that can be fixed or adjusted to easily.  She has impacted me from the day I was conceived, imprinting herself on my character, my tendencies, my development and my decision making.  Because of her, I think certain ways and I consider things with her colored perspective.  Of course I'm not saying that I am not my own person, because I certainly am.  But, I guess I am realizing that rediscovering that person, that "me," is strangely and frighteningly difficult now that she is no longer here.

That's the difference I guess, between my first encounter with grief and this one.  Infant loss is a deep, striking blow to your expectations for the future and your dreams of what was coming.  Something feels like it's been taken from you before you ever had the chance to know that something deeply; the opportunity to impact another being through your love and affection is all of a sudden just gone and you are left wondering, "what now?"  But the loss of a parent, well, it's as if some integral part of your person has been viciously ripped off of you, and it cannot nor will not ever be replaced.

I am not myself.  Part of that may be depression, I'm not familiar with it enough to know what that feels like.  But, the things that made me who I am, my love of food, and laughter, for people and gathering, the things about me that she helped to knit into myself, they are absent.  I am uncomfortable with this new self, it feels odd, crankily irritated and often unhappy.  I can return to laughter and smiles, but that usually requires a few shots of whiskey or half a bottle of wine.  I recognize the thin ice of my statement, and I'm aware of danger or turning to substances to soothe or numb the ache of grief.

But, truly, isn't this what grief should look like? Intense sadness for a lengthy period of time?  Aching loneliness for someone to recognize and join me in a camaraderie of misery, longing for her voice? Why would anyone try to counsel this away? Why would I try to ingest an anti-depressant so that I wouldn't feel this ache anymore? Existing in this cave of grief and uncertainty since she's gone is all that I feel I have left to connect myself to her. I'm not willing to let that go away, yet.

I did promise my favorite Aunt that I would call a recommended counselor today, and I did.  But, she's "booked to the hilt, not taking any new clients" and I don't have it in me to search around for someone that I really don't feel like talking to anyway.  Note to anyone who's a counselor: if you're too busy to see any new clients, take two minutes to call a respected colleague in the industry for your caller's benefit; he or she may be so gravely miserable that it took all she had to make the one to you.  I sound as if I'm that depressed, as if you should call the suicide hotline for me now, and that's not the case.  But, I imagine there are people who do not have the energy to make another call, or will hear that counselor's busy schedule as a rejection, one final rejection. And that may be their end.

Writing is therapeutic for me, as is crying. I don't cry as much as I wish I could, however, because nobody in my house is comfortable around cryers.  My seven-year old, of course, doesn't want to see his mommy sad, and my husband seems to be quite unsure around me when I can't contain my tears.  I hate making others uncomfortable, another trait I now realize, I stole from mom's arsenal.  So, rather than stuff all my tears, I'll let them out as they come if I'm by myself, alone in my room.  Writing, on the other hand, seems to be a publicly acceptable activity; I can type or journal at the local coffeehouse, or on my couch around the men I love and who love me.  I enjoy writing, I realized how much I enjoy it while updating my mom's friends on her battle. It wasn't, certainly, a joyous topic, but, allowing the thoughts and details of our days to flow out onto a empty space gave me the illusion that I had control over something; or at least control over how our somethings were communicated.

A doctor recently told me that in this season, I should expect or allow myself six months of mourning, and then my mourning will turn to grieving.  If I feel that I'm continuing to mourn after 6 months, she said, than I should contact someone about my sadness.  How can you put a timetable on grief?  When can you tell if the measuring cup of pain has overflowed into too many other areas of life?  Should I work harder at compartmentalizing, or do I share my true moments of solemness to anyone who asks, "Good morning, how are you?"  Like anything in life, there is a balance to this season, a way to function and care for my children, husband, home and body and then those times where I should feel comfortable collapsing into a puddle of my own tears.  Right now, this blog is my time and place to collapse, I suppose, and to answer the "how are you" question that only a few people really, really want to know. And, it's for me, honestly, to figure out how I am doing and determine if this journey or season or roller coaster is moving in a forward motion, or a crippling backward one.