My Road to Healing My Grieving Heart
And that's what has been happening to me. I have been holding in all of my pain, all of my tears, and not allowing myself to grieve my mother openly. Granted, here, I grieve her. On my social media pages, I grieve her. But when it comes to saying the words out loud and speaking my reality into existence, I cannot find the words.
I noticed myself turning to anger and outbursts instead of turning to comfort. I'm definitely not ready to reach out to family and friends, my current situation doesn't allow me to be so raw and vulnerable in person. In that regards, I am frozen and I do fear judgement. Judgement as in, "You're still crying over your mom?!?" So I had to find a way to do things on my terms to be able to grieve my mother, respect her memory, and begin to live again.
- I began a journal and now I am up to my second one. I write to my mother everyday, or every other day. It's my connection to her. I write to her as if I were speaking to her in person or as if I were to mail them. I ask for advice, for strength or to visit me in my dreams.
- I turned my little autism blog into a dual blog, writing about my family's autism experience and writing about mother loss. I hope to have helped someone on either subject but it has definitely helped me.
- I started a Facebook group for motherless daughters. It is amazing how open some of the women have been and their openness has helped me to not feel so alone. The Motherless Sisterhood.
- I attended author Hope Edelman's phone conference for motherless daughters. You can read more about her work with motherless daughters and her books here: http://hopeedelman.com/ I was enlightened.
- And finally, after almost 6 moths of loss, I attended my first grief support group.
I researched support groups before and was building up the courage to attend. I didn't know when I would be mentally ready to go but something about this time made it real for me. I saw the post on Facebook, emailed for the information and waited for the day to arrive.
When the day of my attendance of the group arrived, I cried about it all day. Driving there I was a mess. When I arrived, I was comforted to see friendly faces, free of judgment and ready to talk about loss. As the facilitator began, I just couldn't hold back the tears any longer. So I told my story, her story, and I was able to achieve some clarity in all aspects of this time.
I, Lois, daughter of Clara.
I spoke of the anger I felt toward family members that are not pulling their weight. I spoke of how I felt my mother was treated in her life and in her death. And I spoke of the man she left behind. And in the end of the meeting, none of that weight had anything to do with me. I am doing what I am supposed to do as a daughter and that is all that matters.
Today I am free.