Dealing with Grief

Grief is a wild beast. It seems to rear its head when you least expect, or rather least want it to appear. I spent years and years shoving my grief down, hoping it would never again return. I focused on school, then my career, allowing for little space for the hurt to seep into my life. I prioritized achieving, so I did not have to reflect on the hard parts and tough memories of my childhood.

And yet, pregnancy and post-partum held the key to Pandora’s Box. Once opened, it all came rushing in. The memories and the fears I buried so deep that I forgot they were there. The painful recollections that I thought were lost to selective amnesia returned with vengeance. All the flashbacks from childhood stung more with my adult wisdom and insight.

But today, I decided to share some of my story in a way that I know will lay me bare, yet knowing that someone somewhere needs to read this. This blog idea continued to be a weight on my chest that needed lifting. Maybe I was prompted by A Women Was No Man, our latest book club pick, which too closely resembled my own childhood. I was burdened with the reminders as each page turned, yet I was able to reflect in a way that I had not for years.

So today, I am digging deep because I want this blog to be a place where I can heal and grow. I felt a desire today to share, so here goes nothing.

I am a child of a parent who committed suicide. I am a child of a parent who laid his hands on a mother and child. I am a child of a parent who struggled with both mental illness and drug and alcohol addiction. I am a child of a parent who scared me to my core, yet I loved all the same.

Mind you, this was almost 22 years ago, when it was taboo to talk about mental health, addiction, and abuse. This was well before I ever heard of the suicide hotline, much before suicide became a common occurrence.

But I am here to tell you, I am also a child of a women who left to protect me all the while picking up the shattered pieces. I am a child of a women who continued to wake up every day, who continued to care for her child despite being a child herself. I am the daughter of a selfless mom, who never let me see her cry, who endured silently in pain, and who always gave me the opportunities and encouragement to improve my circumstances. I am a daughter to an adopted Dad, who raised me, who cared for me, and who was there for every moment, even though he did not have to be. I am a daughter to an adopted Dad, who never made me feel anything less than his daughter, who told every person in the room that I was his and he mine, and who willingly took in two broken girls who needed him. He walked me down the homecoming field and then down the aisle, and he is just as much of a dad to me and a grandfather to my daughter despite the difference in biology.

And yet, it is so easy to let our minds linger to the fears in our heads. To let every bad thought and memory creep into our brain and let self doubt fester. To place blame on someone else’s action on oneself. About a year ago as I began to unpack the pieces that postpartum threw about like a tornado. I asked my mom as I choked back tears if I was crazy. I worried if she thought I would fall into the mood swings that my biological dad encountered. I asked her red faced and tear streaming down, what I did wrong that made my biological Dad unwilling to confront his demons for me. I asked her if he loved me, as the grief made me feel unloved. And just like always, she reminded me that I was loved, and nothing about the situation had anything to do with either of us. It was simply a man unable to cope with his own worries, fear, and demons.

But here I am a year later, I am sharing my difficult in an attempt to let other women and moms know that it is ok. It is ok to struggle, it is normal to question it all, but it important to remember that you are worthy despite what you have been through. You are worthy of love, of happiness, of blessings. Not only that, but you DESERVE it. You deserve to breath, to laugh, and to achieve your dreams.

For me, I try to remember that God placed each of these trials and tribulations before me to grow me to who I am today. During our book club, we talked about how the hard times change you, oftentimes for the better. For me, the struggles gave me a hunger to prove the naysayers in my head wrong. And I hope that this little piece of prose might do the same for someone else. As I have dealt with the grief, I like to remind myself that my biological dad was struggling, but now he is now pain-free and watching down on all of us, smiling. After all, it is all about perspective.