A Year in the Life
Warning: If you’re looking for a happy, fairytale-esque post, move along. Skip this and go to the next one. Or maybe the one after that.
It’s a heart-breaking kind of irony, calling it a death anniversary. An anniversary is a celebration of sorts. What can you possibly celebrate about death? Especially the death of a loved one. it’s been a year since mum passed, and my life has been irrevocably upended. In the course of a year, I’ve resigned from a job, ventured out on my own, battle depression, lost a couple of close friends, made new ones, and got some professional support from diverse sources. Vague, I know. I haven’t been writing much. I’ve found it difficult to write. There are research that says grief affects the part of the brain that deals with words. Well, shit.
It’s been a year and the world is moving on. Mum did from the Delta strain of the COVID virus, and the strain that’s out and about now is not as deadly (or so they say). Things are getting back to normal. Traffic in Jakarta has returned with a vengeance. Air travel has resumed services. Countries no longer enforce quarantines on people. The world have sort of gotten over the virus. It’s a little disjointed, this realization. The realization that the virus that took mum away from me is now something akin to a regular cold. The world is getting back to normal, but it doesn’t seem like my life can ever be normal. Move on, they say - or at least imply. But I know grief doesn’t ever really end. There is no expiration date to grief; it stays with you, clinging to you. Grief morphs with time and attaches itself to memories - old ones and new ones. I can never be normal again.
(about last weekend)
Friday
I was a mess on Friday. Leaky. My heart ached and my eyes were puffy. It took me everything I got to get myself out of the house to have coffee with a mentor/friend. It was very much worth it, and in the end, I was a little less leaky. That night, I also went out with a bunch of my former teens and a good friend of mine. I was so glad he was there and knew that it was a challenging time for me. I couldn’t eat much of anything that day, really. It’s sort of like my system went haywire.
Saturday
I had a slow start on Saturday, and I made mashed potatoes. I broke down while cooking; it was hilarious if it wasn’t heartbreaking at the same time. Then I went to church. Church is always always a weird place for me. On one hand, I had memories of working and burning out associated with the church. On the other hand, it was a community where I do belong. (And let’s be honest, my mum loved the church community. My family lived at the church, quite literally) I sang at church that night. Some might think it’s a weird decision, but it felt right to me. Then, that night, I went back to my place and had a few friends over. These are people who knew me, knew mum, and most of them are my emotionally safe people - meaning, I can burst into tears in the middle of eating dinner and they won’t judge me. It was good sharing a meal with people, talking about everything and nothing. Laughing together. It felt like a better way to remember mum. It felt right, even in the midst of a whole lot of wrong.
Sunday
I went to church again that morning. (I know, right? That’s redundant.) I wasn’t sure if I was going to go. I didn’t have to. I just didn’t want to be alone. So I went to be with people, most of them not knowing how leaky I felt. My pastor had invited me to go to lunch with him and a bunch of other people. It was Mexican food. I said yes. It was good, being with people. Somehow, I feel a little more human. After a nap, I sat and got on a Groove with a good friend, and started writing this post.
My friend, Josh, asked me how I was all weekend. I was surviving. Sorta. “I’m alive",” I told him, “and that’s enough.” It’s as good as it gets, this weekend. And I think that’s OK. I hope.
Death is awkward. It is unnatural. A year ago, at the hurried funeral, I felt awkward. People there, my family members, seemed to know what to do. Somehow, the rituals of mourning came naturally for them. For me, though, everything was stilted. I didn’t know how to correctly lay flowers on her grave. I couldn’t even step close to the mound of dirt without feeling like I wanted to throw up. But people around me still expected me to be the strong one, the decisive one, the one with all the plans, the one unfazed by death. Even now, when I go to her grave, the awkwardness lingers. The nausea. Every part of me wanted to scream.
And then the strong one fell apart.
This year,
I struggle with depressive thoughts.
I felt untethered. Not unlike a buoy, floating aimlessly at sea. I felt homeless. With mum’s passing, this traveler lost her home.
I lost close friendships, the ones I thought would last forever. It’s too much for them. (Hell, it’s too much for me and I can’t escape it.) And so the loss compounded
I lost myself, to an extent. The person I was before. I’m now getting to know myself again. It’s like I’m on an awkward first date. Awkward.
It’s the little things that break me. A song. Mashed potatoes. An animated movie. A nickname. I’m getting much more comfortable bursting into tears at random times.
I met new people, wonderful people. There’s always a part of me, though, that thinks, “I wish you’d met me before. When I was a little more whole, and a lot less broken.”
Before and after. That’s what my life is like now. Before loss and after loss. With her and without her. Without her sucks, I know that for sure.
I’ve gotten his far and realized that this post sounds weepy. A part of me cringes. It’s the truth, though, and I’ve always aimed to be honest in my writings. I can’t help comparing my grieving process now and how it was eight years ago, after dad passed. Back then, I was afraid of expressing grief. So I worked. A lot. And I came up with a plan for my life. Then acted on the plan. Big lofty goals, no flexibility. Lots and lots of burnout. This time around? Not so much. I don’t cry all the time, but I don’t shy away from tears. I laugh and I make jokes. I function just fine (I’m not defective), but I reflect more and I make different choices. I spend time with people and I spend time with myself. I try to write and take a lot of breaks along the way - even though sometimes the words elude me. And if you ask me what’s next, the answer is
I don’t know.
All I know is that I’m not as tough as people seem to think I am, but at the same time, I’m not as weak as I feel I am. I’m just here, hoping to God I have to courage to face very uncomfortable feelings and circumstances. They (whoever the hell they are) say that you feel grief deeply because there’s a lot of love there. I tend to agree. I carry mum with me wherever I go - to the next thing, the next adventure. I carry the love I have for mum with me. I carry the love she’s always had for me. And I think that’s more than OK.
Much love,
a grieving daughter.
