Today, 6 years ago, I entered a new kind of nightmare. I got the call that my Daddy had died unexpectedly. There are loads of posts about it here on my blog, I don't need to rehash it in this one.
Six years is a long time.
Six years without his laugh, his kindness, his smile.
Six years without all the bad stuff about him, too... but that's not what my heart holds onto.
In all of the grief workshops/ therapy/ reading I've done in the last six years, I know that everyone grieves in their own way. That time doesn't exactly heal all wounds. I know that. But this yearly loss anniversary caught me by surprise.
Last Sunday as I was driving back into town, I began to ache in an indescribable way. It was almost a heart pain. Before I even remembered the week coming up, I attributed it to the stress of what I'd left behind when we went out of town: bills unpaid, a tree that fell on our deck while we were gone, laundry that had to be done. But as Dan and I began to debrief the anxiety that I was feeling, I realized my body knew the sadness of this upcoming "anniversary" even when my mind hadn't fully processed what was happening.
Dan and I talked about how to handle this week of grief and came up with tangible ways to protect my fragility. I said "no" to lots of things this week. I made an appointment to check in with my therapist. And, I made a reservation at a nearby hotel so that I could cocoon this weekend.
There was a season in our lives when running away from home would not have been possible. Whether it was that we didn't have the financial resources or that our children couldn't handle me leaving, it just wasn't in the cards. But now is a different season. It's still not ideal for me to be gone from my kids. It's not great that I've missed some things at church this weekend. I will go home to a potentially chaotic reentry which will undo some of the good self-care I've done this weekend.
But I needed to be sad.
I am not in a bad spot. My mental health is in a solid place today... there are some days I can't report that with such authority. But I'm sad. AND THAT'S OKAY.
It's awkward being sad, you know. People don't like to be around sad people. They want to fix it- to make it better. Often times that comes from the best of intentions... we don't want other people to be lonely or suffer. But sometimes we want to "fix" their sad because it could potentially rub off on us- and make us sad, too.
Being sad isn't fun. And staying sad is when things derail. One wise woman in my life told me that I wasn't just dealing with grief- I was dealing with grief upon grief which can break someone. There have been moments it's almost broken me.
Last weekend at Why Christian, I heard a minister say words that were life giving to me. She stated that anxiety and depression aren't a result of something wrong with us- they are often a NATURAL RESPONSE to trauma. Lord knows I've had trauma. I lost all 3 of my parents in 5 years. One right after another. During those same 5 years, I was caregiver for my Mom as I watched her disease progress and wreck her life. I was sad. To add to that pain, I experienced the loss of my known community when we changed churches. Sad. I lost friends. Sad. And all of that pain changed who I am in some ways. And during that time, I often stayed sad.
Continual sadness has made me more tender.
It's made me ache.
It's made me sensitive to suffering.
Those aren't bad.
Sometimes, it's caused me depression and anxiety.
Those can be bad.
But today, I'm just sad.
The thing that keeps me whole when I'm sad is those who aren't scared of my sadness. Those who send me gifts of journals and cookie dough. Those who send texts and call to let me know they remember the life of my Daddy... and they acknowledge my grief. Those who let me escape and let me run back to open arms.
This morning I drove past a junkyard while listening to The Wailin' Jennys sing "The Valley". It was a perfect moment of reflection of what this feels like. A visual reminder of what the "piling on" looks like. Grief upon grief.
I live in the hills
You live in the valley
And all that you know
Are these blackbirds
You rise every morning
Wondering what in the world
Will the world bring today
Will it bring you joy
Or will it take it away?
And every step you take is guided by
The love of the light on the land
And the blackbird's cry
You will walk, you will walk
You will walk in good company
The valley is dark, the burgeoning holding
The stillness obscured by their judging
You walk through the shadows
Uncertain and surely hurting
Deserted by the blackbirds
And the staccato of the staff
And though you trust the light
Towards which you wend your way
Sometimes you feel all that you wanted
Has been taken away
There are days when I'm in the valleys. And days I'm on the hills. Through it all, I will try to trust the Light. That trust may happen while I'm eating spoonfuls of cookie dough... and I think that's okay.
Six years is a long time.
Six years without his laugh, his kindness, his smile.
Six years without all the bad stuff about him, too... but that's not what my heart holds onto.
In all of the grief workshops/ therapy/ reading I've done in the last six years, I know that everyone grieves in their own way. That time doesn't exactly heal all wounds. I know that. But this yearly loss anniversary caught me by surprise.
Last Sunday as I was driving back into town, I began to ache in an indescribable way. It was almost a heart pain. Before I even remembered the week coming up, I attributed it to the stress of what I'd left behind when we went out of town: bills unpaid, a tree that fell on our deck while we were gone, laundry that had to be done. But as Dan and I began to debrief the anxiety that I was feeling, I realized my body knew the sadness of this upcoming "anniversary" even when my mind hadn't fully processed what was happening.
Dan and I talked about how to handle this week of grief and came up with tangible ways to protect my fragility. I said "no" to lots of things this week. I made an appointment to check in with my therapist. And, I made a reservation at a nearby hotel so that I could cocoon this weekend.
There was a season in our lives when running away from home would not have been possible. Whether it was that we didn't have the financial resources or that our children couldn't handle me leaving, it just wasn't in the cards. But now is a different season. It's still not ideal for me to be gone from my kids. It's not great that I've missed some things at church this weekend. I will go home to a potentially chaotic reentry which will undo some of the good self-care I've done this weekend.
But I needed to be sad.
I am not in a bad spot. My mental health is in a solid place today... there are some days I can't report that with such authority. But I'm sad. AND THAT'S OKAY.
It's awkward being sad, you know. People don't like to be around sad people. They want to fix it- to make it better. Often times that comes from the best of intentions... we don't want other people to be lonely or suffer. But sometimes we want to "fix" their sad because it could potentially rub off on us- and make us sad, too.
Being sad isn't fun. And staying sad is when things derail. One wise woman in my life told me that I wasn't just dealing with grief- I was dealing with grief upon grief which can break someone. There have been moments it's almost broken me.
Last weekend at Why Christian, I heard a minister say words that were life giving to me. She stated that anxiety and depression aren't a result of something wrong with us- they are often a NATURAL RESPONSE to trauma. Lord knows I've had trauma. I lost all 3 of my parents in 5 years. One right after another. During those same 5 years, I was caregiver for my Mom as I watched her disease progress and wreck her life. I was sad. To add to that pain, I experienced the loss of my known community when we changed churches. Sad. I lost friends. Sad. And all of that pain changed who I am in some ways. And during that time, I often stayed sad.
Continual sadness has made me more tender.
It's made me ache.
It's made me sensitive to suffering.
Those aren't bad.
Sometimes, it's caused me depression and anxiety.
Those can be bad.
But today, I'm just sad.
The thing that keeps me whole when I'm sad is those who aren't scared of my sadness. Those who send me gifts of journals and cookie dough. Those who send texts and call to let me know they remember the life of my Daddy... and they acknowledge my grief. Those who let me escape and let me run back to open arms.
This morning I drove past a junkyard while listening to The Wailin' Jennys sing "The Valley". It was a perfect moment of reflection of what this feels like. A visual reminder of what the "piling on" looks like. Grief upon grief.
I live in the hills
You live in the valley
And all that you know
Are these blackbirds
You rise every morning
Wondering what in the world
Will the world bring today
Will it bring you joy
Or will it take it away?
And every step you take is guided by
The love of the light on the land
And the blackbird's cry
You will walk, you will walk
You will walk in good company
The valley is dark, the burgeoning holding
The stillness obscured by their judging
You walk through the shadows
Uncertain and surely hurting
Deserted by the blackbirds
And the staccato of the staff
And though you trust the light
Towards which you wend your way
Sometimes you feel all that you wanted
Has been taken away
There are days when I'm in the valleys. And days I'm on the hills. Through it all, I will try to trust the Light. That trust may happen while I'm eating spoonfuls of cookie dough... and I think that's okay.
