Sometimes history repeats itself. Not always in a good way. I frequently look back at my journals from past years, especially the years since Rachel died. It helps me to see how I was feeling at certain points so I can let other grievers know that where they are in their struggle is normal. It also lets me see how I’ve changed and, mostly, improved in my handling of this grief that will not entirely end until I join my daughter in Heaven. But, I’m not over losing her, and I never will be.
Here’s something I posted five years ago, just a little over a year after Rachel’s death.
May 29, 2018
I just did something I haven’t done in a long time — 59 weeks to be exact. I finished reading a novel. Sat completely absorbed in it for the better part of the past 2 1/2 days.
That shouldn’t be a big deal for me. I’ve probably read 2000-3000 novels in my 58 1/2 years on this earth. I was always one of those kids who would check out as many books at a time as the library would allow and read under the covers with a flashlight way past bedtime.
My girls’ default image when they were at home is of me sitting at the table or on the couch with my nose in a book.
But for a year and 7 weeks I haven’t been able to read a novel. Binge watch Netflix with a bottle of wine, yes. More than I’d like to admit. Play endless hours of Scrabble, Mexican Train dominos, or mah jong on my phone until my mind is numb enough to ward off harsh dreams, uh huh. Read short stories in the wee hours when I can’t sleep and I’m sick of Facebook, sometimes. Submerge myself in “how to cope with grief” books like a newly sober person attending AA every night of the week . . . Yeah. Only accompanied by pizza, ice cream, wine, strong coffee (not necessarily in that order). Followed by tears. Lots of tears.
I also read my devotional faithfully, perhaps obsessively, every morning. Might as well take advantage of waking up early. Praying for faith and belief. Hoping, assuming desperately that the one not hearing clearly is me, not God. Every once in a while, being smacked right in the face with a lesson that leaves no doubt that it’s me. More tears. More strong coffee.
But this weekend I did something I’ve done countless times before. But not since Rachel died. I indulged in the deep pleasure of letting myself get completely absorbed in a fictional world. Barely shifting my position on the porch swing. Coming up to breathe after a surprising number of hours. Jealous of the writer’s talent but anxious to jump back in as soon as I get the dishes done.
It doesn’t matter what I read. What matters is that I did. I did something that I haven’t been able to do for 59 weeks. Something the old me did all the time. Something I didn’t/don’t think I deserve to be able to do.
I feel guilty. I should be mourning; I should be grieving. There’s a difference, you know. I’m still grieving. Maybe I always will be in certain ways. But maybe, just maybe I’m getting past the mourning.
I should be happy about that, but I’m not. I’m not over it.
This journal entry brought me up short. Because, although I got back into my voracious reading habit at that point, and kept it up for a good four years, I hit a wall again last fall.
I’ve talked about “grief seasons” several times. Most bereaved parents have a time period each year that’s anchored by, or contains, several milestones that plunge them into a prolonged period of deeper than normal grief. For me, my grief season starts with Rachel’s birthday (October 31st), includes my birthday, Thanksgiving and Christmas, Rachel’s wedding anniversary on February 10th, and her death day of April 11th (two short months after her marriage in 2017). Other holidays such as Mother’s Day are hard, of course. But, this series of significant dates feels like it just weighs me down. Every year.
For some reason this past grief season was harder. I had my usual emotional reactions to trying to celebrate holidays without my daughter. I practiced my “pre-grieving” and other coping mechanisms that I’ve learned. Still, a deep depression set in. Just keeping up with my basic daily routine felt like slogging though mud. I spent most of my time “tapping on my phone” as my husband puts it. Scrolling through social media and playing mindless games. My tall stack of “to be read” books gathered dust. So did the furniture. So did I.
I finally gave myself an ultimatum. I wrote it on my to do list. Sunday afternoon at 3pm I would start a novel. I chose one of my favorite authors and put the book by my chair. I even set an alarm on my phone the night before for 3:00 that Sunday afternoon. And, I did it. I started reading. And, I finished that book by Monday evening. Tuesday night I started another one.
I feel better. I don’t think I’m entirely past this malaise. Like I said in my journal entry from five years ago, I will always grieve for my daughter. I’m better, but I’m still not over it.
Laura
A Light for My Path 
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