Get Over It

The world called and said, "You should be over it by now"—the never ending grieving process... when it doesn't get easier but you learn to manage.

Get over it!

I can count the minutes to hours and months to the day that my mother slipped away into eternity. I felt like a little piece of my soul went on out there with her. The breath I was taking in that moment became shallow and I felt my skin was ready to burst. It was one of the most horrific moments in my life, the moment I thought to myself not only was life never going to be the same but that it was not as good to me as I once thought. This is the moment when everything changed.

It wasn't long before the walls of time started to close in. I went on trips, drank loads of wine, swam in my tears for weeks at a time, and did everything I could to just get my feet on the ground and do something with myself. I couldn't wrap my head around my purpose anymore. As a young girl my motivation laid nestled in the thought of creating a comfortable life for my mother, one where she didn't have to work three jobs or cry or wait alone and scared anymore. So now that she had transitioned on it seemed as though my purpose had followed suit.

I couldn't find my pulse amongst the grief and horror of my mother's death. During the days leading up to the funeral, I refused to call it a funeral. I changed every sad word about the experience and demanded that we, as a family, travel a much more joyous road in remembering & honoring her.

Soon year-one rolled around and so did the demand to return to the world at large. I was only given a short time to move on from my tragic moment of separation from my birther. After 30 years of learning a human being and working hard to make her proud, I now had to look people in the eyes again. Smile and nod at painfully awkward conversations. Allow people to "apologize to me for my loss"... The first few months were not a walk in the park, though I did have a sister friend that would call me and ask me to go for a walk every morning. It gave me hope in a way, something I knew would happen and someone I knew I could talk to.

I travelled. I sang (though I was numb, I still sang my heart out). I talked and talked and talked until I got all my feelings out in front of me. My friends were magical at this time. They were a mighty thread of life pulling me through this drastic loop. As year two approached, I felt the energy shift. My family members were making drastic decisions and the focus was steering away from me and my grieving process and onto other people's lives and needs. I saw the world continuing to spin and the need to heal my heart no matter how much it felt like neglect. It's like the further you step away from the pain, the feelings of resentment and guilt will try to slide over your happiness. They will lay between your smile and your ability to enjoy the moment in front of you wholeheartedly. But I tried anyway. I allowed the process of elimination to separate me from anyone who was unhealthy and self-serving. I asked God to take the pain away and moment by moment it happened. Before long I was a different shell. Same heart, similar smile, but completely different shell. The year leading up to my mother's death, I decided to neglect glamour. To pare down to the basics. Sweat pants, socks (sometimes), sneakers, mules, the basics and you can forget about makeup. So the idea of taking care of myself took a back seat, a seat that didn't come close to getting filled until the middle of year two.

The days came and went. God showed up in my family and friends and loved me fiercely. I slowly was able to give a little more of myself to others. I slowly began to feel my own pulse and catch my own rhythm, slowly but steadily until my feet were secure under my body. As I write now, I am on the precipice of knowing what's next. I'm wholeheartedly accepting that while I may still grieve in a variety of ways and the feelings come in waves at times that I am allowed to breath a little more each day. I am allowed to take care of myself and love and allow space for love only.

Although it felt like the world put a time chart on when and how long I could be an incapacitated griever, I had to leave the world out of my healing process. I loved my mother and her vision for my life too much to sit by and wait for the pain to leave—I had to actively move it over and, eventually, out daily.

So when I honored my own timelines, listened to my heart continually beat, and remembered that I had a personal responsibility to grow into the woman I was born to be no matter the rate, I was able to put one foot in front of the other.

Peace.

C