I grieve for the childhood I missed. I grew up too much too quickly.
I grieve for the love I have lost, because times weren’t right and sometimes the strongest connections between two people just aren’t enough.
But I rejoice, in both of these things, for a chance to try again.
He lays in Plot 190 A-1 in the Garden of Eternal Life, the man in prearrangements explained and provided me with a map. His headstone is black granite with the words, “Beloved Husband and Father” etched into it in all caps and in a classic font. A life summed up in only four words. It is a single headstone, not the double kind with the wife’s name engraved on the right side, just waiting for her to die. I was glad I didn’t also have to see my mother’s name, the reminder that one day she too would die. After sixteen years, soft grass had grown over his plot, but today, was hidden by snow. My tears made it difficult for me to read, but there I stood. Plot 190 A-1. It had been sixteen years since I stood in that spot, in my only dress, staring at the audience of my father’s friends and business acquaintances. Short of breath, I dropped to my knees and let the snow seep through my jeans. I laid down on the wet earth, resting my cheek on top of the snow, imagining my father’s rotting bones six feet below. He was in a maple casket, his bones decaying inside his best suit. I wondered what his body looked like, if the skin on his face had turned to leather, or if his bones protruded from his rotten flesh. I wondered what stench filled the casket. The smell of death, I imagined, the formaldehyde slowing fading away. His body has been locked inside that casket for sixteen years. Sixteen long years of being fatherless. Sixteen years, six feet below the soft grass and cold snow. I sat up and punched the hard, winter ground. He was supposed to teach me how to make asparagus soup the morning he died.
-Rebecca Johnson
The father no one even told me about until I was 40 years old which was several years after he died. Although I always ‘knew’ something wasn’t right because I didn’t look at all like my brother, sister or the man who was supposed to be my father, they held onto their well rehearsed stories until it was too late for me to look a the person whom I probably most resemble in the world. So I grieve the man I never knew and the loss of the family who kept the secret for all those years. I imagine how different our relationships would have been & how different I might be if I would have been let in on my own life.
I am a forty year old woman, I lost my children 15 years ago due to being bipolar. I did not even know of this illness at that time. I had highs and lows on a regular basis. I did things I will regret for the rest of my life, yet understand and accept my illness. I was pushed away and told to stay away that “he wants to start a new life with a new mom for them and stabalize them” I was told im not a real mother only a biological one. I have grieved for my babies,young girls,teens, now young lady for to long. How do you say sorry? When will this emptyness ever end?
Grief softens you, massaging away the edges that your pain has chiseled over the years. When you allow yourself to grieve, you allow yourself to be with what is true, rather than trying to change it. Coming to terms with the fact that you didn’t have the mother or father for whom you yearned – that you will never have the mother or father for whom you yearn – is a humbling experience. It takes Hope by the neck and puts it in its place – behind Faith.
Hope and Faith are different. Hope reaches out to the future, hoping that things will be different. Hope hangs out in the illusion that if you change enough, these people in your life – the ones you love so much – will be able to see you. Faith is the more reliable partner. Faith will teach you that you are strong enough to feel the pain that lives inside and that you are being supported in this journey. It does not hold out for circumstances changing; it stands firmly with the way things are and the emotions surrounding that truth.
When you decide to join forces with Faith (instead of Hope) you will land in the present moment. It is in the present moment that you will access your grief, and it is through this grief that you will reclaim your health and vitality.
-Beverlee Garb, www.solepurposecommunity.com.
I grieve for children who have been abused, ignored, unloved. I grieve for those who are waiting for a family to call their own, to love them like no one has. A family to make them feel safe, and allow them to smile and have dreams. They are waiting, waiting for someone to say “You are good enough for me to invest in. You are good enough for me to love. You are not broken, you are not unlovable.”
I also grieve for those who are stuck where they are, for those who don’t have social workers who know what is happening each day. They have no voices loud enough to get help. They might not know that they need help, because this is reality, this is what happens in families.
I grieve for those who are waiting to be rescued. And I’ve learned that it is not enough to grieve. My silent grief, inside my comfortable house will not do the rescuing. I must move, I must act, I must be a part of the rescuing.
Thirteen years ago I lost my mind. I call it being crazy; my doctor calls it bipolar disorder. I use to miss my mind, but I’m quite use to it now, and have come to a quiet understanding of my mental mess.
On bad days, I also loose reality. I miss it, too, sometimes, when I’m engulfed in darkness and nothing can pull me from bed or untangle me from the sheets. Other times I quite like it – living in a world with no consequences or hurt feelings.
Losing reality is odd. It’s especially odd to recognize it but not be able to stop it. Knowing what reality is supposed to be, but unable to grasp it, feeling it slip through your fingers like a handful of sand.
Some days I grieve the loss of my mind with anger, with flailing arms and legs, with my toes teetering on the edge of a flat earth. Other days I grieve the loss of my mind with unabashed tears, with a deep breath, with a fake smile, and a quiet surrender. And still other days my grief is gone. Resolved. And I am just me – a girl who lost her mind thirteen years ago, but kept going anyway.
-Rebecca Johnson
For a childhood that was not the worst, but could have been the best. For my Mom who “did the best she could with what she had to work with” but could have done better….for my Dad who died too soon….not a perfect Dad, but great nonetheless. The loss of a family legacy, so many things and people not available to hold onto, to cherish, to learn from. Too many years pretending that it was okay, could have been worse, but wishing it was better. Grief, although sad and profound, shaping me and gently nudging me to a better place.
It has been approximately a year since I have seen or talked to my twenty year old son. The back story is in July of 2010 my then husband told me he was filing for divorce and I said “Fine, I’m out”. He then went and brutally told our daughter, and a few hours later our son. She left the house and went to her boyfriend’s home and my son stayed in the house. I stayed in the home for approximately three more weeks until it became unsafe and I left.
I had lunch several times with my son and he was in the house when I moved out furniture and other personal items in early August and into an apartment less than 4 miles away. We argued in late August and shortly after that he sent me an email telling me to cease and desist trying to contact him either directly or through friends or he would ‘take legal action’.
As the legal situation worsened with my ex-husband the estrangement deepened and he was not even in contact with his sister for a period of time. She and I have slowly rebuilt our relationship and things have normalized. He has cut off his grandmother (my mom) completely. Lately he has seen my daughter and her fiance with her father and the four of them are talking.
But to me nothing. I send occasional Facebook greetings, emails and cards. No response. The Christmas gifts are stacked in the closet. I didn’t know where he lived his sophomore year in college beyond the name of the dorm and the floor. Because of their age neither of my children are required to see us and are considered adults legally. Their father is extremely angry still and has I believe promoted the alienation of my son. Certainly he has shared inappropriate information.
So I am a sonless mother. But he is not a motherless son. I tried to explain that I am his mother forever-no matter how hard he tries to sever me from his life. From what I have heard he claims it wasn’t the divorce-I had been a crappy mother his entire life. Some days are harder than others- Thanksgiving and Christmas, Mother’s Day, his birthday, my birthday, the start of school, the spring breaks. But ordinary days are hard too. A memory of a little boy saying “Mommy, I got something for you” and then giving me a kiss, the hugs and pats on the back as he got taller and taller. The start of soccer season reminded me of the practices and games and washing jerseys and learning that soccer cleats are called ‘boots’. Buying him ‘Sambas’ when that was all he would wear, making a costume for Sequoyah-for a school project. Answering the question “how many kids do you have” can make me start crying or get really quiet. Seeing a trombone or hearing “Smooth” that he played in Jazz Ensemble.
I wonder if this is what it is like to surrender a child for adoption. A wretching decision and a open wound that just as it starts to scab over; the scab is ripped off and blood flows again for a while. And the cycle just keeps repeating. Only my baby was 19. I love him so much and crave any information, any crumb of how he is doing.
So I wait. Trying to let him be the adult he is and respect his decision to cut me out of his life. Impatiently. I wait. I pray his heart will soften and he will acknowledge me again. Call me mom. Return a text. Have lunch with me. Waiting is so hard. I love you Gregory-always have, always will. No. matter. what.
i dont think ive really grieved the loss of my dad…i found out a year and half after the fact…it wasnt that we had a falling out; it was his wife i couldnt stand…now ex gf found out about it from some bizarre feeling she had and then researched and told me while we were on yahoo im…i was at work adn i said flatly, “my dad is dead”…i just went numb…then used it as an excuse to get off work…it hit me on the road…
This blog is capturing the answers of people around the world to one simple question: For what or for whom do you grieve? (To submit your answer, click on that question in the upper left header.)
My name is Patti Digh. I am a writer. My most recent books include "Life is a Verb," "Creative is a Verb," "Four Word Self Help" and "What I Wish for You."
I’m currently writing a book called “The Geography of Loss.” It’s about navigating our way into loss and grief, exploring the geography of the lands we find there, sometimes setting up camp for a while, and then emerging into new lands. It is about creating our own atlas of experience.
