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.

 

Just Let Me Be Sad

Just Let Me Be Sad

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We live in a world where – if you have the means – pain and suffering are to be avoided at all costs. People are always looking for the next “quick fix” to alleviate discomfort. Preferably with the least amount of effort required. In many cases, this means treating the symptoms while ignoring the root cause of the problem.

Our society is so uncomfortable with emotional pain that when someone dies, the outward mourning period is expected to end once the funeral is over.

When the bereaved do not cooperate with these prescribed time tables, they are often accused of “wallowing” in their grief. They are indignantly told to “move on” and “get over it.”

But is prolonged outward grief is a sign of weakness? Or maybe self-pity? Do they think the bereaved secretly enjoy the pain and the attention it brings? For those of us who have lost someone dear to us, we know none of this could not be further from the truth. If we could, we would give ANYTHING to not feel this pain.

The problem is our outward projection of sadness is an unwelcome reminder.

It represents all the negative emotions they’ve managed to stuff deep inside until the pain is suppressed. 

So which is healthier? Suppressing grief, only to have it lie dormant until some tragedy unearths it again – but this time stronger and more painful? Or to acknowledge there is no quick fix to alleviate the overwhelming pain of losing someone you have built your life – and in some cases, your identity – around?

Suppressing grief is like following the latest fad diet.

Everyone wants to lose weight quickly without exercising or changing  eating habits. Maybe you’ll pop some appetite suppressing pills and lose weight in the short term. But the chances of you keeping the weight off are slim. The reality is that the next time you try to lose weight, it will likely be harder than the time before.

The alternative means facing the harsh reality that transforming your body to a stable, healthy weight is challenging. It requires permanently changing your eating habits and amount of regular exercise. You likely need to readjust your expectations of what your ideal body should look like. Sadly, most of us will never look like supermodels or pro athletes. In other words, the second option is HARD WORK, but it has the greatest likelihood of becoming a permanent reality.

But if I’m being honest here, I have to admit that given the opportunity, I would have gladly chosen to bury the overwhelming pain when my daughter died. Suppressing pain and emotions is what I had done my whole life until that point.

The fact is the pain of losing someone I loved MORE than my own life was too much to bury.

I reluctantly – and resentfully – took on more pain than I could bear. I did so because I had no other choice.

For the first time in my life, I learned how to slowly take small steps with that unbearable load on my back. In support groups and counseling, I learned sharing my story and my pain reduced the load. Even if it was only a very slight amount each time.  

By reducing the load over months and then years, it became easier to carry. I have since come to understand that the load will never fully go away, but I have learned how to balance it with the rest of my life. And as time goes on, the balance will become easier still.

That is not to say that occasionally, the load won’t suddenly feel nearly as heavy as it did when my grief was new. And when it does, I’ll remember how to go back to taking small, careful steps until it feels lighter again.

To all those who cringe in discomfort when they see me experiencing outward emotional pain, I say this: just let me be sad.

My intention is not to make you feel uncomfortable. I don’t expect – or want – you to follow in my footsteps. But I do expect you to respect the path I have been forced to take on my journey through life. I truly hope you never have to carry this load yourself.

“Moving On” After the Death of a Child

“Moving On” After the Death of a Child

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We moved to a new house. A house my daughter never lived in, and never will. We left an old house where she lived her entire four short years. A house where she spent countless hours playing, eating, sleeping, dressing up, making mischief, making us laugh…the list goes on.

It was also the house where she died.

It was the house seared in our memories on that horrible day when our lives changed forever. A day we wish we could just figure out how to undo. As I prepared to move, I had to face a lot of memories and choices.

For three years after her death I kept everything my daughter had touched, wore, made, or played with. Some items were kept in bins kept under my bed or in closets. Others were displayed prominently. Some were just left as they were before she died.

As I packed, I was faced with the question of what to do with her things?

Do I keep her things until I’m dead and then let my other kids deal with the question of what to do? Do I get rid of all of it, knowing that these are just things and none of it will bring her back? 

The truth is, they are just things — but they are things that can have significant memories attached to them.

Some of her things have more significance than others. For example, a pair of plain pants she wore a handful of times are just pants. But the dresses or shirts she loved and wore over and over are special. So are the clothes that have very specific memories attached to them or are featured in treasured photographs. The toys she barely played with are just toys, but the toys and books and puzzles that occupied her for hours day after day are ones that meant something to her, and mean something to me as well.

So I came to terms with the reality of keeping what still held precious memories for me, and donating the rest.

Packing the house also brought with it a mix of anticipation and anxiety.

I didn’t know what “new” things of hers I would come across as I pulled out neglected boxes or cleaned out long forgotten drawers. Would finding these things bring floods of emotion and make me cry? Or would finding something new that she created — such as a drawing — lead me to a new treasure that I can cherish forever?

Finding hair from her first haircut took my breath away and turned my stomach into knots. How could I have been so careless as to keep it in a random place where it could have easily been thrown away? Finding her faded, broken sunglasses in the yard brought back memories of her wearing them upside-down and a cute photograph of us together. I kept the hair, of course, but in the end let go of the broken sunglasses. My memories are enough.

Moving to a new house was a lot of work. Do I miss the old house? No. Will I keep the memories? Yes. We may have “moved on” without our daughter, but we will never move on from our memories of her.