So many years after Zachary’s death and I wonder what my place is or how I’m supposed to feel. I think we often compare ourselves with others and how they act/react. Like there’s some sort of script that we all need to follow after a death. I’ve learned that 14 years into this journey, to the day, that grief is so individual and the worst thing we can do is compare ourselves to others. We feel what we feel and that’s it.
I came across this book called Transformative Grief, by Jane Williams and I decided to read it. The title caught my attention.
When I hear other bereaved mommas say they feel one way, and then I may feel another that means I must be wrong, right? My brain interprets that to mean that my grief is different than others’ which equals something’s not right with what I feel or don’t feel.
In the book it starts by saying that Elizabeth Kubler-Ross published her first book, On Death and Dying, based on her research. It was back in the 60’s and it talked about something that wasn’t talked about often. She laid the foundation for what we know as the stages of grief… you know the drill, denial, anger, bargaining, despair and acceptance. These were first applied to those who were dying and then later applied to those who were grieving.
In Jane William’s book she says;
The application of the stages of dying to the stages of grieving often led people to expect a prescribed cycle of grief. Grieving individuals understandably felt surprised and disappointed when they did not experience certain set stages. They felt that they had “failed” grief when acceptance didn’t arrive on schedule. In my reading, research, and work with grieving individuals, I came to see grief as a dynamic, ongoing process, not an event with a set series of psychological tasks completed in a specific order. Like a meandering stream, the process of grief has a direction and timing of it’s own.
We can’t decide when feelings will come, and go or not even come at all. I have been feeling guilty for feeling different. Fourteen years ago I didn’t even know how to breath, put one foot in front of the next, speak, or complete any basic functions. Everything felt impossible and unfair. I was in the thickest fog that felt like it never was going to lift. It was horrible and unending. I couldn’t picture a day that I would feel differently. Life rolled by, painstakingly slow at first, but the speed kept increasing in the smallest of unnoticeable increments. The fog slowly dissipated and I started to feel normal. (I hate that word by the way… that comes with another entire level of guilt).
** I never finished this blog post but I still wanted to share it today as I sit to write on the 15th anniversary of Zachary’s death. I think I never posted it because I felt unsure about my emotions. I had a false sense of normalcy before it was all about to be ripped from me again. Seeing a glimpse of what I felt a year ago is a reminder that change comes with each day.**
