Part II: Rendezvous with Grief

Safe, But Fragmented

When Grief arrived, I was already well-practiced in ignoring it.

Well practiced in not feeling too much.

I remember being eight, playing a board game with my family. I don’t remember what was so frustrating, but I got mad, really mad, and everyone laughed. Something in me snapped. I pushed the table over and ran to my room, slamming the door several times for good measure.

Re-entry after that incident felt shameful. I quickly adapted: anger is not allowed.

I can’t remember what made me mad. But I can’t forget the response to my anger.

This wasn’t cruelty; it was inheritance. I come from a loving, working class family. Parents doing the best they could with what they had. My dad worked, and mom stayed home for most of my growing up years. There wasn’t a lot of money, hand-me-downs were welcomed, and we were guided to treasure the sentimental over the material.

“If the house was on fire and you could grab one thing, what would it be?”

“Photos.” Things that can’t be replaced. Obviously.

I was a teenager when we lost our remaining grandparents, and it seemed like a natural course of life. We all quietly moved along without a lot of discussion.

The unwritten rule in our family was “Shhh… Keep emotions quiet and be happy, but not too happy.” Anything veering outside that guardrail was too loud, too much, and should be experienced quietly and privately.

Mom’s British lineage showing itself in quiet ways: don’t be disruptive. Be nice. Beneath it all, my great-grandfather’s generation whispering, children should be seen but not heard.

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I became accustomed to interacting with life at arm’s length.

Transactional would be the easiest way to describe it: I do this, so I get this.

I work to get paid.

I exercise to lose weight (and be accepted).

I work hard for success and money (measures of my worth).

And you know what? I was good at it.

Good at being good.

Good at being nice.

Good at doing things right.

You know how I know?

Everyone liked me.

There was no conflict… except the conflict within me.

It seemed like a worthy price to pay.

Until it wasn’t.

Perfectionism had been the perfect disguise for the vulnerability of not being good enough.

People pleasing masked a deeper need for control. Control what others thought of me. Control life, in general, so I would be safe.

“The safest thing you can do is take a chance.” Elaine May

I operated with the misconception that there was a right and wrong way to “do” life. I didn’t know it at the time, but Grief was about to amplify everything I could no longer afford to ignore.

I had spent a lifetime learning how not to feel.

No wonder I missed every earlier invitation to meet Grief.

No bother, Grief was patient. It didn’t judge or scold. It waited with open arms.

(Part III coming soon)

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