Becoming a SuperStar

Out of all the magical fairy stories my aunt made up for us as children there never existed, not even once, a magical fairy that shook a wand and made a broken heart heal, or grief disappear.  I suppose the story that would lead up to that, though, would be one too sad for children.

Alas, there is no magic wand…no fairy to cast her spell. Grief is something we must wade through wearing cement-filled boots while trying not to drown in the quicksand that threatens to pull us under.

I will never forget driving to her house that day, but I have no recollection of how I drove myself home. It’s strange the things you remember…the things you forget. I walked straight up the stairs to my bedroom and collapsed onto my bed where I laid in the dark. The constant chant of, “Why”, over and over coming from my lips, in tandem with painful sobbing were the only sounds in my room.

I had heard of people dying from broken hearts, and it made me wonder if it was a kindness of God, or if the person willed their heart to just stop beating. As I lay there in the dark, angry at God, I did everything but dare Him.

Instead of death, I felt a gentle hand cup the side of my cheek and I instantly fell asleep. I will remember that moment forever, as I was the only one in that room and my arms were wrapped around me as I lay curled in the fetal position.

After hours of torture, having shed every tear my body could release, my soul continued to bear witness to the death of the person I had been before.

In the immediate days that followed I was tasked with taking care of her final arrangements

I had never been to a funeral home as the person planning the arrangements for a deceased loved one and as I sat in the elegant dimly lit conference room waiting for the funeral director, I took it all in. The room was comfortably warm, a lone window in the center of one wall draped in heavy fabric, another wall held glass display shelves with rows of beautiful urns. One urn in particular caught my eye. It was an emerald shade of green, one of her favorite colors. I stood up and walked to the display case for a closer look. It was even lovelier up close with veins of gold running throughout the vivid green. I would have spent my last dime to buy her that urn…but I knew it wasn’t what she wanted.

On our last summer afternoon together, a mere nine months prior, we spent the day at her favorite spot at the local river. She oddly made me promise to have her cremated and her ashes spread right where we were standing in the middle of the river as the water swirled around our calves. In that moment the sun was shining on her face, and she was happy. As the last thing that I could do for her…I would keep that promise.

The kind funeral director would make no urn sale with me that day. Instead, I gave him the necessary documents with required sibling signatures which would grant me her death certificate. I also had my final good-bye alone with her, I hadn’t quite figured out if that was self-inflicted torture, or a blessing. Today, as I write this, I feel it was a blessing.

I have found there is no right or wrong way to process grief in these early days of loss, there is no logic to any of it. In fact those who came at me with logic were banished. The more I felt a timeline was being imposed upon my grief the deeper it became a part of me…the tighter my grip became on it.

I would go onto develop a mental health disorder known as “Complicated Grief”. Complicated grief is very much like the initial stages of grief, except healing never begins, the grief intensifies, often occurring when a close loved-one dies in a traumatic or violent way, such as by suicide or homicide.

 Instead of grief being a wound that begins to heal and scab over I was mentally bleeding out. Tack on Post Traumatic Stress Syndrome (PTSD) and I couldn’t stand being in my own skin. Nightmares came at night and crept into the middle of the day, thoughts came together and then flew apart.

What kept me grounded were my children…my love for them both had me clinging to Jesus, and what had me clinging to Jesus is the love He has always had for me. I don’t think I could trust or count on anyone else. I needed something bigger to believe in. My faith has served me well.

It took seven years for true healing to finally take place… healing that reached deep to the root of my pain and began to spread. I went to several different therapists during those seven years, each worth their weight in gold, each being exactly who I needed at each phase of my journey. I was also incredibly blessed to have a wonderful psychologist on my team, I absolutely needed medication for PTSD and the depression and anxiety symptoms that go hand in hand. My psychologist has referred to me as a superstar on many occasions because I refused to give up on myself, because I kept fighting for my mental health with every damn thing I had… He’s been with me through hell and back, and I bawled like a baby when he chose to retire from private practice.  

An offering of hope for your healing:

Often in our darkest time we lose hope in humanity, we look around and it seems that only proof of more garbage exists than good. Please look for something bigger than yourself to believe in. For me it was and still is Jesus. I found a beautiful home church that fed my soul and deepened my relationship with Christ. I also became a helper and threw myself into helping people in pain because focusing on others took me out of my own suffering if only for a moment. What can you get behind?

 XOXO,

Shellie

P.S. Check out PsychologyToday.Com to find a therapist near you.