The Mask

The following was passed along to me. If you know the author or where it originated, please have her contact me. Thank you. -Lynda Cheldelin Fell

The Mask 

One day, many moons ago and shortly after my son passed away, a bereaved parent asked me “Have you started wearing your mask yet?" My reaction was to give her a puzzled look, the look of someone who did not understand what the mask meant or the meaning of her question. 

Having survived a full year of sorrows and after having experienced the “tidal waves,” the “crashing,” the “rebuilding” and the tremendous loneliness steaming deep from my tormented soul, I have finally understood what wearing the mask was all about.

Lessons came in early and quickly at the start of my journey as a bereaved parent. I rapidly learned that whenever I showed my “raw” grief over the loss of my child, or even glimpses of the incredibly difficult path I was traveling on, I was often times treated with pity, surprise or disbelief. Many of those times I was also bombarded with unsolicited advice, while other times I encountered distant stares and a coldness that stem from a place of disengagement and uncaring demeanor. 

It seemed to me that my grieving had suddenly turned me into someone to feel sorry for, who seemed overly vulnerable and dangerously approaching a point of failure. Someone I did not recognize and prompted to be shun away. 

My strength also became questionable and my grieving needs were shortchanged. Defective, unfit, complicated, stuck, unhealthy, and broken are many of the words crossing my mind when I think of a bereaved parent like me. It is not surprising then that my natural inclinations were (are) to conceal the depths and extent of my sorrows. 

Conceal? Yes, as I have quickly and painfully realized that my ability to “function” and “fit in” in a blissfully sorrow-ignorant society seems to be dependent on my resilience. The faster I am able to recover and move on, the stronger, more independent and capable I seem, and the more desirable person to be around I become.

Pain, I’ve noticed, makes people uncomfortable and weakness seems to have no place. My sorrow can only coexist, so it seems, in the dark depths of my broken soul. 

Luckily for me, I quickly discovered the “I am okay” mask, which I now wear daily – it feels safe and it works! This mask is what allows me to go to work, socialize and appear as “normal” to the rest of the world as possible. This mask also seems to give others a sense of comfort. The comfort steaming from the belief that I am okay, and finally “moving on/forward,” and “getting over it.” Clearly, if I look “okay” then I am definitely on my way to recovery. 

Unfortunately, the possibility of recovering from the loss of my precious child is null. There simply is no “moving on,” “getting over with” or “moving forward.” My grief has no expiration date, and my recovery is simply an impossibility. Wearing the mask is my saving grace, my safety net, but also my torment. This mask can be so exhausting… 

Consequently there are times, when burdened by the pressures of my contained pain, that I’ve chosen to take my mask off (just for a bit), and finally let the guard down and share my sheer pain. Sadly, disappointment has quickly followed. The reactions I’ve encountered have made me want to immediately crawl back into that little cold, lonely but safe place (where ONLY I know how bad it is, how cold it feels in it and how lonely it becomes) and once again, I am forced to wear the mask. 

The cold stares…the pity…and the ill-advised comments quickly disappear afterwards. 

So I ask, why is grieving so difficult to handle? Is it because of our human quality to quickly want to fix anything that seems to be broken? Or is it our inability to accept things that cannot be changed, such as death? If people were to just stop trying to fix me, telling me what to do, acting as if they understand how I feel (unless you lost your child, you don’t), and trying to change me (and all other bereaved parents), I (we) will be once again free. I (we) will not have to hide behind the “feel good/I am okay mask," since this mask can only masquerade the pain, but could never take it away. 

And I could only hope that one day, people will finally understand that the loss of a child is a devastating event beyond repair. That life as it has been known, no longer is. That the cycle of life has been permanently altered, the chess pieces moved, and the lives of parents, relatives and friends forever changed. You cannot fix the “unfixable” – you just can’t! 

Instead love and accept us just as we come…imperfect, broken, different, hurt, and desperately trying to survive." ~ Anonymous

What rocks and water taught me about the meaning of life

BY:  Rachel Jane Flower

Here's what rocks and water taught me yesterday about the meaning of life....

Yesterday the wind was whipping up the waves into a dancing frenzy. The sun slipped behind a cloud and the water grew dramatically darker. It all seemed to perfectly mirror the surges of emotion I had been experiencing the last few days. Grief, combined with relief, combined with deep love, combined with aching sadness.

Lake Tahoe Photo Credit:  Rachel Flower

Only a week ago I lost someone very special in my life - my dear brother in law, Skip, who was really much more like a real brother to me. As I shared in my last blog post, these Tahoe waters have helped me open to a deeper relationship with life and death. But what happened yesterday took that to a whole new level, courtesy of Mother Nature and the interplay of water and rocks.

And it began with another extended swim...

Lots of my friends think I’m nuts, because I love to swim for long periods in very cold water. But for me, it’s not just about the physicality and aliveness of it – it’s also powerful way to connect with the essence of life. After all, water connects us all. For millions of years, water has cycled through from clouds to lakes to the earth, to rivers to oceans, and back up into the sky. Most of our body is water – and the same water particles that Jesus drank, that Buddha drank, that Attila the Hun drank are still with us today, cycling through our cells, linking us all through time and space.

Swimming through the waves, stroke by stroke, I felt myself carried into a delicious trance. The waves rising, falling, rising, falling, seemed to pass through me rather than under me, offering the exquisite experience of release and letting go. Waves rise, waves fall. We breathe in, we breathe out. We live. We die. Emotion comes. Emotion goes. It is all a part of life, and Nature can so beautifully reflect the inner landscape of being.

After swimming back and forth across the rocky bay for almost half an hour, my attention was drawn to some rock formations on the beach. A local artist had created a series of cairns along the shoreline, each comprising several precariously balanced rocks.

I swam towards them, wanting to get a closer look at these exquisitely fragile artscapes. I clambered across the pebbly beach towards them and sat down next to a couple of the larger cairns, just wanting to be in silence with the rocks. I loved the paradox of it. Transience and permanence blended as one. Ancient rocks that have rested here unchanged for eons, that have seen species and civilizations come and go, held now in a delicately transient balance that a stray tennis ball or a gust of wind could easily destroy.

Life is transient. And life is forever. That is what these rocks were saying.

And I found it to be deeply comforting.

People come and go, but spirit lives on. Ideas come and go, but inspiration lives on.

A feeling of peace came over me.

As I walked through this outdoor art gallery, I felt myself drawn to a large, black stone that lay near the base of one of the formations. Weathered by wind and waves, it was smooth and shiny. I picked it up and instantly felt comforted by the physicality of earth’s gravitational pull. Holding this stone in both hands I began to move and flex with spiral movements, allowing the weight to guide me into a dance with gravity herself . I felt the pull of matter teaching me how to be in my body; how to be grounded and fluid and light and heavy all at the same time.

After I don’t know how long I held this rock high above my head until I almost couldn’t bear it and finally released her with a satisfying thud into the sand. I instantly felt as if a huge weight had now been released from me.

I flopped down on the sand, exhausted and content, knowing I had received a precious gift from the stones and the water: It is what it is what it is.

People die, but spirit lives one. Memories live on. The connection lives on.

Nature is the ultimate connector. The ultimate connective tissue, bringing disparate parts of our being back together as one. Blending the moment and eternity through the loving pull of mother earth’s gravity.

Thank you,

Rachel Jane Flower

My 10 Rules of Grief

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