One story about grief

Yesterday I came across this blog-post, about the writer's relationship with her mother and about her mother's death when she was in her late teens. As usual I had been reading a series of blogs, exploring the words and thoughts of others. As usual I was on a journey of discovery, and then I finally arrived at the lines the blog-writer had quoted from a poem by Sharon Doubiago. This is where I stopped reading and started to write here on my own blog, about my own mother or rather about the loss of her.

When I started this blog a few weeks ago, I knew that I wanted to give some space here to the issues that are close to my heart. Naturally one of these, is to share information about how adults can help children who are grieving for someone. I also intend to write about children who have suffered trauma and the work that goes on to help them recover. Both of these as much for my own learning as for anyone who may come here to read what I write.

Today I am not writing about these things though. Today I am writing about me. And that's ok.

Notice that I have had to justify writing about my own grief. I still have to justify this, even though I recognise that it may be an important milestone in my "growing up" process. I also realise that I am dancing close to danger here too, the danger of staying stuck in a particular story about how my mother's death has defined me.

I hope that I am breaking out of that story by writing some words about it, I don't think it is making the story stronger. If anything it is softening the story, reshaping it and offering it as a gift to be shared.

There is some guilt and fear still here however, as I try to make a space here in this blog for my authentic voice. Clearing away that clutter is not easy is it? In the confusion of looking outwards and looking inwards, what do I trust now? What is real?

First to go, is that old familiar fear and guilt about showing my emotions, and of appearing too needy. On that day 40 years ago I did not know anything about being needy or not being needy. I didn't really understand what had happened and so felt very little, except an urge to look after my Dad who was crying as he told me what had happened to my mother. I must have felt slightly uncomfortable at seeing him cry, I instinctively tried to comfort him and make him quickly stop. Perhaps this discomfort with emotions and vulnerability was already part of our family culture? Much, much later, I always wanted to be seen to be coping ok and I think I actually believed that I was.

I think I have been trying to be "grown-up" since that day my mother died. In the process all I managed to do was to simply grow a massive amount of neediness inside, which eventually had the opposite effect on my external life than intended. Part of becoming "grown-up" I am starting to know now, means being comfortable with emotions, your own and others.

Now I am starting to really look at the process of grieving I went through, maybe I am creating a new story about what happened? However I still have to justify giving space to this process. I still reassure any readers that it's ok, I am really not so needy, I am together and worthy and will post more useful and grown-up stuff later.

The good thing is, that being aware that I am doing this makes me smile, fondly and kindly at my self. I shake my head and say "ooh you rascal there you go again!" The judging, critical voice is not far away but thankfully it is not my first reaction!

Anyway, when I read those four lines of that poem, and recognised that for a long time I only ever knew the first two lines, it was like a light bulb switched on. This was my story. The end. My mother died. She died. I was seven years old. "My mother is a poem I'll never be able to write". That was it. I gave my story power. It was over. I didn't want it to define me. I was sensible. I was strong. I was ok. I could look after my Dad and myself. No-one talked about what had happened. I wasn't sad. I saw few of the emotions of others. I didn't attend the funeral, I didn't get the choice, someone took me out shopping.

My story was silent but strong, and it did define me. It went through small changes, and gained momentum through the different stages of life. I became a teenager. "My mother is a poem I'll never be able to write" and that's ok. I'm ok. It happened and I'm used to it now. It's over and my life is just beginning. When people asked and I told people that my mother was dead, they said they were sorry. I told them not to worry and it was ok, I couldn't remember her anyway. It's ok, I reassured them. I can remember as I said it, that I didn't really want to move on from it so quickly. Now I wonder if I was afraid of the emotion that might bubble up if I stayed in that place or perhaps I didn't feel that my story was one other people would want to hear.

A little later. "My mother is a poem I'll never be able to write" and it is all quite terrible. I don't know how to be a mother. I don't know much about anything. I don't know much about myself. But it's ok. Let's just move on. I'm ok. It's nothing to do with my mother's death, it's just me. There are other voices I can listen to.

Then, "My Mother is a poem I'll never be able to write" and I am angry. It's not fair that all this happened to me. This is why my life went so wrong, it's all the fault of that event. I have no control. I have no voice. I have no power. I am ashamed. I'm angry with the people who didn't help me grieve properly. Why me? It's not ok and I'm not ok. I need others to help me. I can't deal with this adult world. What is wrong with me?

Just recently I started to think and talk more about my mother, and look at images of her. I am on the path to being grown up or to wholeness. I felt this momentarily during the Unravelling course. It was fleeting and precious, I want to feel it so much more often. I am perhaps only a few steps away.

This is one of my stories and it has hope, it is not the end. I am both free of it and I claim it.

Now as I write this, I can feel the anger and rage and loss of that seven year old girl and am so grateful that I was brought to this place to write and make a space of safety, where I can take steps. I can take that small girl's hand and show her the next two lines of the poem, "though everything I write is a poem to my mother".

I feel familiar regret that I never read or recognised these lines earlier in my life, but I choose not to stay in this place. I take the small hand in mine and I make sure she knows that it's ok to be sad, it's ok to talk about our mother, look at pictures of our mother, to mourn what was lost to her as she grew and what is still lost to my adult self.

I take her small hand and smile as we recognise together that, yes this event defines us but we can take the power back. Yes these things happened at this point and at this, but what happens next and each everyday action can be defined by something else, something whole and calm. Now we know it is there and we start to know how to reach it!

I shake my head in wonder at how I never knew these two lines and I smile that at last I hear them.