Most of the time I can put on a mask and act a part. I know my role well. I say and do the things expected of me. And people buy it. Maybe it’s not even that I am as great of an actress as I think I am. Maybe it is because people choose to see what they want to see. They aren’t looking for cracks in my mask. They don’t notice the way my responses are sometimes delayed half a second too long as I choose my words and tone of voice carefully to keep the mood light. They don’t see the way I stare out the window and take a deep, cleansing breath when someone unintentionally says something triggering and/or offensive even though I know that their intentions weren’t malicious. I bite my tongue so my reflex response doesn’t catch anyone off guard. I know pointing out their misguided joke would just cause awkwardness or hurt. I hold enough hurt for everyone. There is no need to spread pain.
But biting my tongue, suppressing tears, and acting a part is exhausting. Pretending I am happy when I am hurting is draining. On top of playing a part, I still have a hundred little tasks to tend to in order to take care of my family’s needs and that depletes me of everything I have by the end of the night.
Eventually, I can’t keep up the act anymore. One of two things happens.
1. If I don’t feel like I am safe to be raw and vulnerable, I go quiet, hide away, and plan my exit. It is much easier to be not okay in my own home where I am in control of my environment and my schedule.
2.If I am home, I can schedule my vulnerability and my breakdown. That probably sounds strange, but because I have small humans with needs that they can’t meet on their own, I don’t have the luxury of checking out and falling apart whenever I feel like it. I have to make sure their needs are met and wait for them to be asleep, distract them with a movie, or wait for their daddy to be home before I can fully address my emotions and my own needs.
When it’s just me or just my husband with me, I can break down. I can cry or yell. I can be mad at God and myself. I can slam my hands down on the countertop in frustration and anger. I can completely fall apart. With only Eric, God, and the angels as the witnesses to my breakdown, there is no one there that might say the horrible things that I sometimes think they are thinking...
“2020 has been horrible to everyone. There is nothing special about your circumstances. Deal with it.”
“January was your month. It’s so and sos turn to be taken care of now. Suck it up.”
“No one else knows or even cares how you are feeling because you shouldn’t still be a mess. You are weak and pathetic.”
“Maybe this is your punishment for not being -fill in the blank- enough.”
Or hearing the things people have actually said to me...
“I just know your next pregnancy will finally give your husband the son he deserves.” (What if there isn’t a next pregnancy? Do you have any idea how hard pregnancy is? Do you know how much harder a pregnancy after a loss is? Do you know that we could have a dozen more babies but none of them would ever magically heal us because none of them would be Cayden? 🤦♀️ Sorry, for the side tangent.)
“Maybe your baby is actually the lucky one because he doesn’t have to live in this world.”
“Well, at least Cayden never had a chance to turn away from God. Can you imagine being so and so and having your child die while they were living a life that didn’t line up with the values and knowledge you know are true?”
“This baby is so hard. I am not sure we would have chosen to have this baby at this time if we had known how hard it would be.” (Your experience and feelings are valid, but choose your audience better.)
“Oh, just you wait. When you have a son, you’ll understand.”
I know most people say things with a desire to be helpful or comforting. I know most people have good hearts. I try my best to remember that and not hold on to the unintentional hurt... but sometimes that takes time.
Sometimes coping with my grief means avoiding some celebrations. I try to convey my love from afar, but I know it isn’t the same and can be taken as apathy.
Sometimes coping means leaving early and quickly. When I have reached that point, I am usually trying so hard to keep it together that I don’t risk explaining myself for fear of falling apart. I know this has hurt people. I don’t want that.
Sometimes preventing grief from hitting randomly means hiding people or posts on social media. I hope this doesn’t offend anyone. I hope they don’t even notice.
I wish I was acting and speaking more authentically in real life. But with people, whether well-meaning or not, regularly saying things that minimize my feelings and experience or they change the subject whenever my words make them uncomfortable, it makes it clear that people don’t want me to be authentic. They want to believe what they want to believe. They don’t want to know the truth. They don’t want to face the uncomfortable truths. And that makes me feel pretty isolated and lonely in my grief.
I am not sure the point of this post. I guess I want people to understand that you only see what someone allows you to see... and what you want to see. And please don’t take my absence or departure personally. I am actively trying my best to navigate this new world I am in. Some days it doesn’t hurt as much. Other days, I am hypersensitive. Some days I have words to express myself. Other days, I don’t. But I am trying. Sometimes it feels like I am trying to tread water with sandbags tied to my ankles, but I haven’t stopped kicking... and that counts for something, right?
No comments:
Post a Comment