They say that losing a loved one is one of the most difficult challenges a person will experience in their lifetime. They also tell you that you will find ways to heal, and perhaps even heal or find peace completely and that the process as a whole "gets easier" in time. I noticed that when addressing the topic of grief, one tends to forget that the healing process itself is different for each individual. What you find on those typical self-help related blogs or news articles on the internet are often subjective to the experiences of the author and as a result, will not always apply to or aid in your own ineffable experiences surrounding death. It's not a process that can be rushed or ignored as there is no specified timeline in healing from grief. Not even psychology can openly confront the range of complex emotions you're bound to feel all at once after experiencing something of exceptional pain, along with the long-term effects that it plays on the lives of each person — this is a fact that I am still learning to accept.
Initially, I had a very distant relationship with death. One could say that my concept of death was even slightly juvenile and muddled. The majority of the deaths I faced as a child were of people who had indirect or secondary relationships with me and thus, had closer relations to my immediate family or friends: a distant aunt; a great grandmother; a friend's cousin; a person who lived on my street; and the list goes on. For the first two decades of my life, I had yet to experience a funeral, let alone see a lifeless body inside of a dreary casket. It was strange to me because, at that point in my life, I definitely had undergone many adversities that the average twenty-two year old would and should not have lived through; but for me, at least at the time, death was not one of them. I had lived two decades of my life with the childlike mentality that my loved ones, specifically my parents, were in a sense, immortal. I grew up thinking that nothing could touch them; I grew up believing that they were invincible; I grew up viewing my parents as my own version of superheroes because that's what they genuinely were to me — my mother was like my Superwoman, while my father was like my Superman. I had seen them struggle throughout the entirety of my life, and they were not by any means perfect, but they never failed to display strength and resilience in every aspect and for that reason, I never felt like I could ever lose them. Living in this bubble of denial and naivety would eventually prove itself to be a major hindrance — it failed to prepare me for the sudden passing of my father. I still vividly remember that summer afternoon as if it only occurred a couple of days ago rather than seven, almost eight, whole months ago. I saw my father just four days before his passing and I had texted him "I love you" that morning prior to when we found him. When I close my eyes, I can visualize even the minuscule details of his untimely death — the way his body was positioned, the scattered items surrounding him, the expression planted on his face, how he was ice cold to the touch; every single one of them. During the first couple of weeks after his passing, I constantly found myself attempting to block out the memory of his body from my mind, but the memory would always resurface regardless of where I was, who I was with, and what I was doing. What continues to have a profound impact on me from that day is the good-natured police officer who came to talk to me before I went to see my father. He had told me that he lost his mother at a young age and that the way he found her body is an image that has never left him. He warned me that if I chose to see him in his present lifeless state, it would remain with me for the rest of my life and that it was completely understandable if I chose to wait to see him at his funeral. Because of my close relationship with my father, it was no surprise to anyone that I did not hesitate to choose the former. After our conversation, I went down to the basement where his body laid limp and briefly examined his position. It only took a matter of seconds for me to be in hysterics and turn away to run back up the stairs as tears rapidly began to form in my eyes. The officer was right — it became a memory that continues to creep up on me at this very moment, to this very day. Never in my life would I have imagined my first tangible encounter with death, let alone my first funeral, to be that of my own father's; never would I have imagined him dying in such a traumatic way other than peacefully on a hospital bed with my hand clasped in his; never would I have imagined writing a eulogy for him at the age of twenty-two; never would I have imagined not having him walk me down the aisle at my wedding; never would I have imagined him not being able to see my brother and I grow old; never would I have imagined him not being present in the lives of his future grandchildren; never would I have imagined not being able to physically embrace him or tell him I love him; never would I have imagined that 2017 would be the year that I would spend my last birthday, Christmas, and New Years with him; never would I have imagined having to physically live without him before my life even began. For the first three to four months, I went through destructive phases of self-harm, loneliness, anger, guilt, and denial — coping mechanisms and sentiments that I turned to in the past, but were only heightened after the passing of my father — and had difficulties sharing my feelings with the people who showed nothing but love and support towards me. I mentally put myself in a negative, isolated prison and initially had no intention of being freed. I lost interest and motivation in many of the things I admired and would often misinterpret the advice that my family and friends would give me out of mere love and concern. I felt as if I were deceiving people whenever I'd smile or laugh. I felt guilty even showing a hint of happiness or optimism when I knew I was still grieving and in the process of healing. Everything became a trigger. To say that I was at an all-time low would have been a definite understatement. At that point, I realized that I was in too deep but most importantly, I realized that I no longer wanted to suffer. In the midst of all the tragedy, I knew that I still had a handful of blessings in my life — the most supportive family, boyfriend, and friends. I reconnected with people who I once lost touch with; I built relationships with people who became integral in my healing; I made a list of goals and already accomplished a number of them in just a short matter of time; I put my mental health above all and sought help where I knew it was available; I found various reasons for my father to be proud of me in spirit; I found various reasons to live my life again. At the end of the day, what I was coping with was not something merely unique to me — my mother's still grieving; my brother's still grieving; everyone who had even the slightest relationship with my father is still grieving; and anyone who has dealt with losses, in any shape or form, is still grieving. We all grieve, and it's our job to find the right and best ways to cope with the many losses we are set to experience in our lives. Though I don't necessarily believe that anyone can thoroughly heal from a loss, it's transparently possible to cope and come to terms with it. My advice to those of you dealing with grief and/or are suffering in silence is to surround yourself with the people and things you love and to not let that feeling of despair control your ability to achieve greatness. It may seem impossible to move past the trauma, but what can help is to be mindful that you will never be alone in this battle and journey we mutually call "life". One day you will realize that the good will always outweigh the bad — I'm living proof of that. Remember: you are loved. - P.M
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