Three Years

Three years. Less time than it takes most people to get a college degree. A blip in the grand scheme of a full life. But somehow also another world away. A different life. A bygone time. It's been almost three years since I lost my daughter. January 13th. That's her day. Lucky number 13. A birthday and a death day all wrapped into one. But isn't that just the perfect example of what life is? One big stupid wonderful awful contradiction. A world full of paradoxes. That's what it means to live in a life after loss. We exist though part of us has died. We are blessed for having experienced their former presence but agonized by their current absence. Joy and pain. Love and loss. Tears and laughter. Experiencing as profound a loss as I have, you have this strange sixth sense. This extra compartment in your mind opens. Empathy comes more naturally. Emotions are felt more deeply. You are keenly aware of the fragility of your existence. And that is both frightening and empowering. Because you know each moment is a gift, but no moment is promised.

When I lost my daughter, I was 24 years old. I felt trapped in a bad marriage, choking on sadness, and utterly alone. I had no idea how I was going to manage bearing the weight of this tragedy for the rest of my life. And I won't feed you any bs about time healing all wounds or everything being in God's plan. Because, the truth is, there is no real answer. Time doesn't do anything except transport us farther from that fateful moment. Loss is just terrible. It's excruciating and indescribable and boundless. And in the beginning you will vacillate between a numbness and disassociation unlike anything you've ever experienced and pain that will make you want to claw your own insides out. An emotional torture that will make you wish you could trade it for physical pain. Because physical ailments most often have a clear treatment, while the emotional wounds tend to be ephemeral, pulling the rug out from under us over and over again. What you may not be expecting is the less straightforward manifestations of grief. The way it seeps into the rest of your choices like smoke through the cracks in a door. Apprehension will be at the forefront of every thought. Because if the worst can happen to you, if the worst HAS happened to you, everything else is fair game, right? How can I ever believe in my own happiness again? Do I even deserve to be happy? I placed myself into many situations, especially relationships, which I knew were doomed to fail. Because if I could somehow anticipate the hurt, that would make it easier to bear. But in working with that backwards logic, I cheated myself out of a full life for a good while. Hear me when I say it will take time to trust yourself again. But we all have to come to accept that life is a mixed bag. People are flawed. There are issues out of our control. But none of that, absolutely none of that, is a reason to ever hold yourself back.

I think the biggest takeaway that I have after three solid years of grieving, is that it really is all up to us. In the end, we're all on our own grief journey. Trek. Hike. Ride. Rollercoaster. Whatever you want to call it. Having support is vital - don't get me wrong. But knowing who to ask for help, and when, is all down to you. Having a therapist doesn't mean shit if you aren't holding that mirror up to yourself. It's sort of like what Rafiki says in The Lion King (such a classic, RIP Mufasa), "Oh yes, the past can hurt. But from the way I see it, you can either run from it or learn from it." The unfortunate truth is that grief makes you your own worst enemy. After all, the hurt and anger and pain is all trapped inside. And you can't run from yourself. Believe me, I've tried. Healing happens by feeling. And it sucks and its awful and boy do I wish there was a way around it. But you have to go right through. There is no way to skirt it and no easy way out. I fought that one for a long time. I checked out of my feelings so hard that it took a lot of backsliding and shitty choices before I let them in to be felt. Really felt. And as much as my family begged and pleaded for me to do things differently, I had to want it. I had to choose it. I had to face it. It's a lonely place for sure. But also an empowering one. To know what it means to reach the depths of human emotional strength and resilience. Because almost three years ago today, I held my dead daughter in my arms. I sent her to the morgue. I picked up her ashes, and I chose her headstone. And, somehow, I am here to tell the tale. I got out of bed everyday, and after a while, I managed to find the joy in life again. That is her legacy. What her life has meant to me. A second chance, a reason for being, and a source of profound strength. John Green once wrote that some infinities are bigger than others. I'd like to thank my little flower, for giving me an infinity within this little life of mine. Being your mom is my greatest blessing, and I love you more than words could ever explain.