April 15th, 2010 by Cy
There are numerous ways I could begin this post. None of them are “correct”, so I’m going to dispense with my normal attempts at setting up the background of this post. Just trying to set this up would take pages. And it would take objectivity I may not have. Sorry folks.
@TheWocket and I have been talking recently. While we’ve covered many, many subjects, as we often do; one subject came up that struck me on so many levels – it lead to the recent weeks of blog silence on my part. The silence comes not from being wordless, but feeling unable to express myself in a non-offensive, but accurate manner. I’ve actually confessed my reticence to @TheWocket, explaining to him face to face what it is I wish to convey and expressing my concern at it’s ramifications. I even offered to never write at this blog again, purchase another, secret domain and move my writings elsewhere. @TheWocket would not hear of it.
“It’s your blog Angel. Write what you want. If others do not like it, ban them.” was his response.
Thanks @TheWocket, for the listening, the support and those words. They don’t take away my angst, but at least I am not going into this post alone. *kiss*
Again without prior setup: @TheWocket and I were speaking a few weeks back, and the subject of my boys came up. This isn’t that unusual really. I often share tidbits about them, and sometimes @TheWocket or others are curious, so they ask questions. During one of these conversations, the subject was broached about my boys, and my lack of photos of them.
At first, when @TheWocket mentioned it, my response was to blink wildly….dazed. Apparently, people or peoples think it slightly odd that I, as a mother, don’t have pictures abound of my boys. This concern, along with the fact that there aren’t many real life people around here who have known me for years, was brought to @TheWocket so that he could be aware of these “questions”.
I was honestly…….. kind of blown away-ish. “What does me having pictures of my sons have to do with anything?” I asked quickly.
He just looked at me and sort of shook his head. He wasn’t questioning me, he was merely expressing questions about me brought to him.
I can still hear my shocked voice as I said, “But I have pictures….they are on my rolltop desk at home in michigan. In fact I even twipic’d the desk and noticed the boys pictures were in the desk picture.”
I truly was shocked that something like me, having or not having pictures of my dead sons being a warning bell to someone that I am some sort of bad person.
“I mentioned you only packed to come to Kansas for a week.” He softly offered. The look on his face said it all, even he didn’t understand the picture thing.
I was really quite stunned by this, and it took some time and thought before I could speak of it again. When I did, suddenly I felt like I had to explain myself, with regards to pictures and my boys. It made me sick.
I sat with @TheWocket and carefully tried to explain……hell I don’t know what i tried to explain. I think what I did was start speaking about that time…. back after they died…..until now.
I realized in speaking with @TheWocket, that while I am okay speaking of my sons, their death and also their/our lives together, I am only okay with that when I am not having to share, or explain my pain.
And suddenly as I tried so hard to unemotionally explain to @TheWocket about why after they died I kept no pictures, why after the fire I asked no one for copies, or why I stopped contact with my few friends after I moved away…… I felt horrid shame.
It was the act of having to justify how I grieved, continue to grieve that shamed me. It was explaining to him that photos of the boys hold no real memories, the memories are etched on my soul….. it was looking at him and suddenly asking, “Was I wrong not to have their pictures to flaunt around?”
I felt shame, humilation and as if suddenly, I’d just found out the last 11 years of my life I’d lived WRONG!
**deep breath**
I was pretty tore up, to the point that I called @NAMG and over the phone I talked – she listened. It was as I asked her, “Is it wrong for me to NOT have their pictures to show people?” that I also revealed more of my pain surrounding their deaths. I told @NAMG how I am okay speaking of their deaths, or of our lives….. and then i heard myself say for perhaps the first time outloud, “But I am NOT okay with sharing my personal pain with anyone. I can’t do that yet… not yet.”
She, being a true friend listened, and comforted and dared not judge. We spoke of how I did not wish to express my feelings on this subject in an emotional, possibly manipulative way. I wanted @TheWocket to understand my past as it were, yet I didn’t want pity or sorrow to be his reasons for acting or responding.
@TheWocket and I did speak of this subject again…. and slowly, with tears at times, but mostly as I worked to keep my composure, i explained as best I could that sharing my pain, which is still VERY REAL” isn’t easy for me. I told him how before this was ever brought up, I’d wrestled with the idea of sending for my boys pictures. I explained that it hurt to look at them and it hurt worse to share them….. that in my heart I had a STRONG feeling that someone, anyone, should DESERVE to see my boys pictures, before I ever show them.
I was floored he understood. Floored and oh so grateful. He is the greatest man I know due to his gentle understanding.
Yet, despite the listening ears and understanding of my friends, the entire subject still bothered me….. only it bothered me for a far different reason then I’d thought it would.
I can’t look at anyone and say my way of handling the boys deaths was “right”. I always said (before they died) “I would just die if my kids were killed before me!” <— I meant that with every ounce of my soul. In the game of trying to imagine what “You” would do in any given circumstance, I was POSITIVE I would not live if my children died.
Then they died.
Then I lived…………
In the immediate days, weeks months after their deaths, I woke up each time realizing I hadn’t died yet. I spent my days struggling with other peoples pain…… not able to share mine with anyone…. always dealing with it alone. Hell, I even up and moved away, cutting all ties to all my friends and support systems because I could not bear it.
I lived.
And then, as years passed, I started healing.
Like I admitted to @NAMG, I see NOW it was not good to cut ties and run away like I did. And by the time I realized that, years later…. I figured it was too late. I’d burned those bridges.
I’ve never been proud of that. But it was the best I could do at that time. *holds hands out, palms up, shaking head regretfully*
I also never realized, at least consciously that one of the reasons I have lived such a solitary life is because I kept people at a distance by not sharing my pain. I realize it now. That’s a huge step for me, albeit not easy.
And now I sit here with just a sickening feeling in my tummy. Wondering why anyone, anywhere would even try to question what another person does during a traumatic, life altering loss.
How are “you” to judge the fact that I do NOT display pictures of my deceased sons? Seriously…. who are you? Perhaps to “you” it may not be normal, but have “you” lived in my shoes?
I know since the day the boys died, I have never, ever second guessed, questioned, compared, judged or quantified any persons reaction to death or traumatic loss.
I understand now, we each do the very best our personal systems allow.
What kind of mother does not have pictures of her kids and has a fire so she lost all of them and has no friends from those years ago?
THIS ONE.
Not right, nor wrong, just who I am.
And as of this post, I’ll no longer be ashamed of how I have conducted myself with regards to my sons ddeaths or my grief. And I forgive myself too. I finally see, no thanks to nosy people who feel they have a “right” to know, that I *really* did do the best I could at the time.
And I’m still living.
Lean. Slim. Beautiful. Dorad blinked in disbelief. He’d gone to one knee when he heard the doorway open and the woman enter. And now, despite his doubts, he stared at the alabaster skin on the wrist of the woman – who knelt before him?
