Hiding My Grief Behind the Veil of “Normal”

Hiding My Grief Behind the Veil of “Normal”

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When you see me, you probably see what you would consider to be a strong person.

You see someone who appears to be living the “American Dream.” I juggle a family, a career, a social life, and even a volunteer position for a good cause. You see a person who came back from the death of a young child. And as you usually put it, someone who has “moved on” with life.  You see someone who has seemingly taken lemons and turned them into lemonade.

But unless I want you to, you don’t really see me. You see a “normal” version of me through a veil that I wear. 

I began to wear this veil as soon as I was forced to interact with the “normal” world. A few weeks after my 4-year-old daughter’s sudden death. It felt awkward and didn’t fit well when I first put the veil on.

But I put it on because of your reactions to my overwhelming grief. They seemingly made my life even harder than it already was. I put it on because I couldn’t handle your looks of pity, your awkward pauses, or sometimes your indifference to my pain.

I wore the veil because I didn’t want to call attention to myself in my darkest hour.

When I had no choice but to go back to work, you saw someone who didn’t smile or interact with you much. But you thought that was to be expected — at least for a little while. From your side of the veil, I appeared to be throwing myself back into work with a passion and concentration you hadn’t seen before. You even commented on how impressed you were with my work ethic.

After avoiding me for a few weeks, you decided it was time to go back to your normal interactions with me. You casually asked how I was and expected the standard, “I’m good, how are you?” Apparently, you wanted me to feel included in the “normal” world again. You started telling me your latest dramas and the juiciest gossip.

From my side of the uncomfortable and ill-fitting veil, I was barely able to hold a thought for more than a few minutes before my mind turned to my daughter, her death, and the nightmare I was living in.

Most of the time, I was desperately trying to hold back the tears that were constantly welling up behind my eyes. This went on day after day and week after week. I used the veil to try to shut you out. All I wanted was to get through each day without bursting into tears and screaming at you all to shut up. I didn’t care about work, your dramas, or gossip.

None of it mattered any more. Nothing mattered anymore. I bit my tongue, painted on a fake smile, and told you I was “fine” for your convenience. And by the way, you’re welcome. I guarantee you would not have liked being around me without my veil on at that time.

Behind my veil it was exhausting to keep up appearances for your side of the veil.

Behind my veil I constantly wished for you to not look in my direction. I wanted to stay invisible and avoid your small talk. When you did engage me, I summoned up all the energy I had to pretend to be normal. To pretend my world was still the way it was before she died.

When I saw you in the supermarket or doctor’s waiting room or my kids’ soccer and baseball games, you saw someone who usually avoided eye contact. But who smiled back at you and said hello if you managed to catch my eye. You saw someone who politely made small talk with you and seemed perfectly personable.

Inevitably, when you saw me with my four boys, you asked the question I dreaded most. “Are you going to try for a girl?” Thoughts raced through my mind of how I should answer. Was it betraying my daughter to pretend she hadn’t existed so I could avoid this torture? Most often I gave my standard response that politely laughed it off. I answered, “No, four kids is enough,” in hopes you would change the subject. If I was in the rare mood to tell you the truth, you heard my brief, but sobering statement that I had a daughter who had died. You said a brief condolence and then politely changed the topic, stopped talking, or said goodbye.

The veil has changed a lot in the years since her death.

I got so used to wearing it that it began to feel comfortable and even normal. Even though it began to feel normal to wear, I never fully embraced it. I looked forward to the times I could take it off and just be myself around you.

As I changed over time, so did your reactions. I learned how to better harness the pain of losing my daughter into learning how to live a more meaningful life. My grief softened and felt less threatening to most of you. I’ve often surrounded myself with those of you who don’t want me to wear a veil. And for all of you I am truly grateful.

These days I don’t wear my veil very often. But I keep it in my back pocket and wear it on days that are particularly hard — often for no apparent reason.

I wear it when I get triggered in public by certain special events, an innocent comment, disturbing image, or the sounds of sirens screaming by. The veil was an invaluable tool when I was early in this journey of grief, but I would love to live to see this society become one that tolerated authentic grief in a way that made the veil altogether unnecessary. Wouldn’t that be something.

 

The Terms of My Surrender

The Terms of My Surrender

by

From the moment you came into my life, I hated you. I despised you. You came on the heels of my worst nightmare come true – the death of my young daughter.

I didn’t know your name at the time. I just knew that you brought with you all the horrible feelings and emotions I had spent a lifetime learning how to repress and ignore.

You broke my defenses down like they were candles trying to stay lit in a hurricane. You pounded me with pain, panic, anger, confusion, hysterics, anguish. And too many more to list.

Mostly you came in waves. Pounding one emotion down on me after another, but in such quick succession it was hard to even breathe or stand. Sometimes the feelings and emotions came in combinations, leaving me a shaking, sobbing, angry mess.

Soon, people around me who knew better told me that you had a name. Your name was Grief.

When I realized who you were and how you operated, I decided to wage war on you. I felt I couldn’t possibly continue the barrage of emotions that constantly debilitated me, so I became determined to stop you in your tracks and send you back to the depths of darkness you came from.

In the early weeks and months, my first defense against you was to “play dead” like an opossum being hunted by predators. My mind became numb to dull your overwhelming pain. I felt as though I had become an automated machine going through the motions of life without really experiencing it. The sensation felt like when you stare at the open road in front of you on a long, boring drive and then can’t remember how you got from one place to another. But over time, you found ways to defeat my numbness.

I then tried distracting myself with work; burying myself with so much busyness you couldn’t force your way in. But you were always there lurking in the shadows waiting for your moment to strike. Most often you would pounce when someone broke me out of my busy stupor by innocently asking, “How are you?” At that moment, my concentration broke and you flooded into every crevice of my body. Enraged, I thought to myself, “Do you REALLY want to know how I am?” But I’d bite my tongue and flatly answer, “Fine,” while you surged your pain through my body.

Having lost these battles, I began scanning over countless books and articles to try to discover your tactics and secret weapons so that I could plot my next moves.

I attended therapy and support groups to learn from the experts and others who had survived you so that I could gleam their winning strategies and use them for myself in defeating you. It didn’t do much good. I found myself withdrawing from everything and everyone around me to try to isolate myself from you and all your triggers. It only served to strengthen your resolve.

Occasionally, I won small victories. Talking about you and your oppressiveness to others seemed to send you away momentarily. But in the quiet moments, you always reappeared. Writing about you made me feel as though I had the upper hand, but the glow of victory soon faded after the last word had been written. Exercising seemed to alleviate your oppression, but in retaliation, you often cranked up your attacks to leave me too exhausted – physically and mentally – to find the motivation to work out. Spending time in nature often gave me a sense of peace and inner strength that softened you some, but could never defeat you altogether.

I spent years fighting you until I finally accepted this fact: I cannot beat you. I cannot make you go away.

In fact, the more I fight you, the stronger your feelings and emotions take over me. I’ve found that you feed on fear and anger. I’ve discovered you thrive and grow from any attempts to control or resist you.

So, if I can’t win, I officially wave my white flag and surrender. But I do so on my terms:

I Will No Longer Fear You

Despite the few times when I thought the only escape from you was to end my own life, I am still here; still standing. I have survived every painful emotion; every panic attack; every uncontrollable rage; every bout of severe depression. I am stronger than I ever thought possible, and will no longer fear your attacks. While I know some will still come out of nowhere, take my breath away and bring me to my knees, I will stay calm and know that your attack will eventually subside. I will ride the wave and let it take me where it will, knowing that eventually I will find my way home.

I Will Support Your Other Victims

Much like others supported me in my time of need; I will reach out a supportive hand to anyone who is within your grasp. I will listen quietly to their story as many times as they need to tell it. I will share my experience with those who seek it in hopes it will bring them a sense of understanding and community.

I Will Learn From You

Since you can be a destructive force to those who resist you, I will instead pull you closer and look to you as my ultimate teacher. For I have learned that deep within your pain and suffering lie kernels of truth and knowledge on how to live a meaningful life: a life without fear; a life filled with love and compassion. As you were created by losing a cherished loved one, you have love at your core. I will learn how to find the love at the center of every pain. I will learn to find the truth at the center of every fear. And when I learn these truths, I will share my knowledge with the world.

These are the terms of my surrender, and I know you have no choice but to accept them.