One of the many reasons my head initially exploded was that my mother was diagnosed with non-Hodgkins lymphoma a few years ago, and in the awful November of 2013 announced that she was too sick to travel to see us for Christmas. My world collapsed. She is still going strong, relatively, but between then and now, knowing she is nearing the end has meant I have been living in suspended grief - sad, missing her, but not able to fully grieve her and move on.
That kind of perpetual sadness and loss takes its toll. I lost two dear friends in the first year of being ill. Both were mothers around my age with children the same ages as my children. and attending their funerals within the fog of pain and mental illness was horrendous - but also strangely cathartic. It felt oddly real and natural to feel an emotional pain that had a distinctive external cause, rather than the emotional hell my own mind was putting me through. Mutual friends were worried about me, but were comforted by seeing that I was OK - I cried with them, and we mourned the passing of our wonderful friends. It was particularly heartbreaking watching the children at the funerals - children the same age as my own. When I often felt suicidal that image - of motherless children crying - brought me up short. I then lost a schoolfriend to MS and have just lost another friend to epilepsy - both sudden deaths that happened too young, shocking and heartbreaking, not least for their mothers. Perhaps the only thing more heartbreaking that watching young children bury a mother is watching a mother bury a child. Other minor griefs have happened recently, losing an old dog and a young cat. Family pets become such a part of your life and your emotional network that losing them hurts almost as much as losing human friends, sometimes. Throughout this loss I have found comfort and sadness in the memories, in knowing how they touched people's lives, the legacy they left. And, selfishly, in feeling a deep sense of pain and loss that was rational and right, and not the product of a horrendous mental illness. PTSD robs you of yourself. You are triggered into acting in ways you can't control by events you cannot predict. At its worst it is terrifying because you have no way of knowing if the horror will ever end or if you will be trapped inside psychosis, self harm, anger and fear forever. You are terrified you will hurt yourself or worse, hurt those around you. Some days the only way out seems to be through that door marked exit in your dreams. Grief, in a curious way, gives you yourself back. You are forced to confront your own regrets, pain and difficult feelings. In the early days you find yourself in tears without realising why, and the pain is physical. Having a rite of passage - in our society a funeral - is important. It helps us feel the pain together, connects the living in their memories, allows us to cry. And whilst the pain of losing a dear one never goes away completely, we do heal, and move on, and find ways of living with our grief. At least, we do if we acknowledge it. If we allow ourselves to feel the pain, and cry, and miss them. That is a very mindful approach to things: not to shy away, or ignore powerful feelings, but to let ourselves feel them, share them, acknowledge them for what they are. Grief teaches us humanity, and comfort, and also that we can survive immense pain. So soon I will be burying my friend, and my cat, and letting myself cry and feel sad. Safe in the knowledge that this rite of passage is not something insane: it is something deeply, incontrovertibly sane, right, and 'normal'. In remembrance of Rona, Ailsa, Rachel, Kate, Geri and Bobby. Rest in peace, with mountains and sisters and rabbits and mice, and here in this realm we will remember you with love.
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AuthorI came to mindfulness through trying to find a way to be sane and compassionate in an insane and harsh world. Archives
October 2017
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