My 10 Rules of Grief

I May Not Have Depression After All

I have spent a lifetime with sadness on my lap, even when it seemed there was nothing wrong.  I eventually would go to the doctor when it would get to be too much and many times the results came back that I was suffering from depression. I seemed to wrestle with this most of my life.  At times I experienced a loss or something sad, I could understand the sadness.  But when life was good, why was I so sad all the time?  It must be a hormone thing?  Physical problems were a relevant issue since I had been in surgical menopause, had been diagnosed with Fibromyalgia and a few ruptured discs in my back.  All of these health issues can cause depression and that makes sense.  So I would take the pills prescribed and work on any problems that came my way.  Eventually the monster depression would come back and I would set there baffled and hopeless one more time.  Am I always going to feel sad?  I need to find a way to accept it.  Yes!  Acceptance is the solution.  So I threw myself into different ways to accept my depression, and surrendered the fight to something that was a part of me.

In 2010, I experienced a horrific loss that left me shattered.  My mother was in her early fifties, and passed from a drug overdose.  This was not my first loss in my life, I started losing loved one at the age of five.  A sister, uncle, grandmother, grandfather, husband, cousins, a father (not sure if he was my real father), several friends, three beautiful pets, and now mom.  Not to mention being raised in alcoholism, drug addiction, and abuse.  I was abandoned many times in my childhood and would be given to the foster care system.

I am definitely a fighter and a survivor because I would always make a strong comeback.  What did I miss last time?  What did I need to do better?  Yet the hopelessness would win every time.  So back to the doctor, another round of medication, and therapy.  Days after my mom passed I ran into a lady whose son had committed suicide.  She had a certain look in her eyes.  At first to be honest, I was like, “I’m glad you’re happy.”  I was in the dark grief world.  The place between living a death, and wanting to die.  I said nothing to her, I just watched and listened from a distance.  The day came when I approached her with a lump in my throat, and my eyes full of tears.  May I ask you something?  She said, “of course.” How is it that you are free and your eyes seem to sparkle?  What is it that you do?  You lost your son, but you seem at peace?

She started sharing her story with me about how she went on her journey.  She talked of a handbook called, The Grief Recovery Handbook.  She told me that this handbook had saved her life.  Being desperate and completely out of ideas, I ordered the book.  Within the first few chapters my life was changed forever and had not even started the work.  My life was running through my mind.  Come to find out all the sadness I was experiencing wasn’t depression it was grief!  I couldn’t believe it.  I couldn’t remember one doctor’s form I ever filled out mentioning anything about grief.  The only time I spoke to a doctor about grief is when my husband was killed.  The doctor himself had heard of what happened to him.  He prescribed tons of anxiety medication, and sleeping medication.   My world opened up and finally there was hope.  I had been treating my grief as depression my whole life.  It’s like taking a bar of soap out to fix a flat tire, it just won’t work.

I went on to work the book and have had wonderful results and I highly recommend it.  I am not a doctor but this is my experience.  I truly believe depression exists and should to be treated.  I went to my doctor with my new found information and she was very supportive and even encouraged me to do the work.  It has been four years since the loss of my mother and I can say I feel much better.  I still have my days so don’t get me wrong.  But today I know that I’m sad, not depressed, that I’m grieving.  It’s normal and natural to grieve.

I send you blessing my grieving friends,

Angie Cartwright

My Truth

By Angie Cartwright

In my deepest of truths, I thought that if I could stay angry in grief then there would be no pain.  I have learned that anger is a way to survive above the grief.  You can’t touch me when I am in this place.  It shields me from all reality.  My anger, a feeling like any other, is pain.  It’s a painful emotion that fuels all my other feelings.  It keeps me from them at the same time it throws me directly into them. Beneath the anger is my fear, fear of what will happen, what won’t happened, and what just happened.

So this is what grief is for me.  My heart hurts.  The anger lessens but leaves me feeling raw and vulnerable.  My tears begin to flow.

So this is what it is to be human.  I feel vulnerable, raw, messy, scared, lost, and alone. Why do I reject these feelings? They are a part of who I am, just like happiness. When I push away the “bad’ feelings, they get worse.  When I permit myself to feel the “bad” feelings, they visit and leave.

So here is another truth deeper than the deepest:  I want to live, and feel.  In order for me to do that, I have to accept all of me.  I am a human being made with many feelings. To live and feel, I have to experience whatever comes my way.

I know it’s easier to write about this than to actually do it, that’s the truth.  So today I will try to embrace my humanness, not just some of me but all of me.  My healing depends on my honesty, and I can’t worry about what others think.  My life depends on it.

The Gift

My heart drops, as it often does.  It doesn't take much when I’m tired, or if I hear or see something, for my heart to feel the heaviness.  And then the lump in my throat starts to grow, and I have to swallow hard.  It often happens in public, which makes it worse.  

It's easy to ruminate the loss, but hard to remember the relationship we once shared.  The void easily breaking through the laughter when I turn my head and suddenly hear someone say "mom."  And there goes my heart.  It takes my breath away.  Loss does that, takes it all away.  

I often wonder if anyone around me is grieving and if so, I wish I could tap them gently on their arm and say, “You know, I really miss my mom today.  Please tell me about your loved one.”  We could cry together, or not.  There would be no rules.  But we would share the heaviness in our hearts, the lump in our throat, and the void in our lives.  

My heart is heavy today.  I would give anything to sit next to another griever, just to be with them right now at this moment.  Maybe our shared heaviness would be the beginning of a new friendship.  Either way, it’s a knowing and understanding of another’s pain that empowers the soul.  When two unit and share their pain, there is an undeniable connection.  You don’t even have to speak.  Your souls connect and, in that connection, the heaviness feels just a tiny bit lighter and there is comfort knowing there is someone else in the universe who gets it.  

To all of you who have shared your heaviness with me, I give you my heartfelt love.  For you see, when you share your grief then I feel not as isolated and my pain lessens, if even only for a brief moment.  That moment when we connect and share.  Even when it’s brief, love and compassion and understanding are true gifts.  

Thank you for your gifts, my grieving brothers and sisters.  

With all my love,

Angie Cartwright

Maybe

Maybe it's the soft wrinkling of her skin, or the cute little glasses perched on her nose. Or the way she is nibbling her red licorice.  Maybe it’s the way she talks to her daughter seated next to her.  Or maybe it's her gray hair that caught my eye, this lady sitting across the aisle from me on a plane ride home.  


Just looking at them makes my heart ache for another maybe.  I want another glimpse, just one.  Even a “maybe” would suffice.


I feel this heaviness in my heart.  It’s not her hands, or her hair.  In fact, it's not her.  I won't ever get another glimpse of my mother, not even a maybe.  Yet if I look in the mirror, I see the maybe.  I see her soft wrinkles, and the gentle beginnings of gray hair.  I really do love licorice.  And even though that isn't what I wanted, maybe, just maybe, if I look closely enough and am open enough, I will see her.  I will see her in everything and everyone.  I will see her in someone’s love for a child.  Or a good song, or an emotional moment.  The love of a good movie, or the gratitude for a good Pepsi.


Maybe I'll just keep looking.  Some days I can, and some days I can't.  Either way, I have to find a way to be okay with maybe.  Yet, I know this to be true:  she can see me, feel me, and even truly be right next to me.  I like that kind of maybe.


All my love,

Angie Cartwright
www.griefdiaries.com

My Keys

By Angie Cartwright

Several months ago while packing for a speaking engagement, my daughter Ashley gave me a really pretty necklace featuring a bunch of keys.  It took my breath away, because I have a quote that pertains to keys and I didn’t realize how connected I was and how deep the connection went.

When I write, it’s mainly in the moment of the feelings I am experiencing.  You see, I have lived most of my life in prison.  Sometimes the prison was self-inflicted, other times it was outside of my control.  Over the past ten years, by the grace of God, I have had more freedom than I’ve ever had in my entire life.  But in 2010, I once again found myself in the black abyss of prison, the dark prison of grief.

For those of us who have known prison virtually our whole life, you can’t use all the nice, beautiful tools people offer to heal heartache.  I would have loved to, if I could have.  I believe that many of us with deep heartache would free ourselves with a key if we could. 

I tried all sorts of things I learned over the years to lessen the blow of my young mothers drug overdose.  I read many books, prayed, and begged.  I walked, exercised, spoke to ministers, and anyone else that would listen.  If it was suggested, I did it:  take this, don’t take that, do this, don’t do that.  When you’re in desperation, you’re just about willing to do anything.

The sad part is that when it doesn’t work, you become hopeless.  And if you’re already hopeless to begin with, then you become done.  Just done.  You shut down, and find yourself contemplating dark thoughts such as suicide.  Your mind closes down from all hope.  You find yourself thinking, why?  What’s the use anyway?

This writing isn’t about the one key that will take you away from all your pain.  Rather, it’s about the truth.  The truth is this:  Grief and heartbreak are messy, overwhelming.  There are no short cuts, and definitely no quick fixes.  I wish there was.  But I will say to you, my grieving friend, that there are many keys.

The key necklace my daughter gave me was cheap.  I wore it during that one trip several months ago.  Since then, as cheap metal does, it began to discolor.  Some areas looked rusted, while other areas remained shiny.  

The next time I packed for a speaking engagement, I really looked at the necklace.  It looked old and used.  My ego wanted to leave it behind and go buy a new, pretty necklace.  But by leaving it, I was ignoring my true self, who I am, and what my journey had been.  I had to stay true to myself.  I had to pack the cheap, discolored necklace.

I wore that key necklace during the entire speaking engagement, all weekend long.  I remember I would hold them, and count them at times when I was nervous or scared.  I didn’t fully understand my connection to that key necklace until recently, when I came across a simple quote I had once written.  "I felt like a prisoner in my own grief.  Breaking free is a journey.  Thank God there are many keys."  Suddenly I was lost in the memory of when I wrote that quote, and the emotions flowing through me at the time once again bubbled to the surface.

Since my mom’s passing four years ago, I had tried pretty much anything and everything.  Some things worked and others, well let’s just say I can’t believe some of the things people will suggest.  

I have experienced a good day, a real belly laugh, and I have hope.  Was I done grieving my mother?  No.  Was there more pain coming?  Of course.  But when you live in the prison of heartbreak, the good days feel like miracles.

Looking back, I realize that I just needed to try to seek out keys, understanding that some will work and some won’t.  What may work for me may not work for you.  That is perfectly okay.  I also learned that the actions we take today may not immediately alleviate the pain from my old, destroyed foundation.  Rather, my actions are now part of a new foundation I’m building for my future.

I now collect keys, keys that represent who and what I am, and the unique journey I have been on.  Many of my keys appear rusted and old, with lots of wear and tear on them.  But I honor myself when I wear those keys.  I also honor those who gifted me with those keys:  my friends, my family, grievers, mentors, teachers, and nameless ministering souls who I have never even met.  My keys came from many.  

My keys continue to change.  Sometimes I lose them and need others to help me find them. The keys stand for many things, including hope, pain, searching, forgiveness, love, honesty, humility, being human, remembering where I came from , self-esteem, not living for approval from others.  Most of all, they represent my understanding that sometimes the keys don’t always work. 

I can’t force pain to feel better.  If we could, we would.  But those keys are my reminder that one day the doors will open, and no matter what the key looks like, it just may be the one that sets me free.

All my love,

Angie Cartwright