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The mask of grief

We bereaved parents all wear one

Written by Connie Small, June 3, 2001

I still take it one day at a time. I keep thinking it's going to get easier, but it doesn't. It seems like it's getting harder. I miss her more and more each day. Most of the time, remembering her is too painful. It's easier to bear the pain of missing her, than the pain of remembering her.

I still write a lot. Nearly every day. Some days, I put what I write on writtenbyme. Other days I just keep private. Some days, I may only write a line or two. Some days, I think I'll never stop writing. I'm not sure if it helps to write or not. Some times, it feels like I'm going to burst if I don't write down how I feel. Nearly each time I write, I do so through my tears. I write everything that is in my heart right that moment, then I leave those emotions and walk away. I never go back and read what I've written. A couple of days ago though, I did go back and re-read something I wrote. A mother who had lost her child, read "Grief Insomnia" and wrote to thank me profusely. She said what I wrote helped her immensely and she just had to tell me. I was so taken by her overwhelming appreciation for what I wrote, that I went back and read it to see what I had actually written.

I never realized just how powerful my written words are. If feelings could be seen in black and white, there they were, in my writing. I had written those words, and was struck by their intensity. It was almost as if someone else had written what I felt, because I didn't recognize the words as ones I had written. I couldn't remember writing them. I remembered the feelings. But not the words. It was almost as if they had been written by someone else. It's still so hard to believe she's gone. I try to live in denial as much as I can. That's getting harder and harder to do.

My life has changed irretrievably. I honestly don't know what keeps me here. Probably that I don't want my family to go through what I go through now and I know that my death would cause them much pain. I wouldn't wish that on anyone. If it were truly up to me, I would choose to leave this world. If I had no family, I would leave. Not even friends would be enough to keep me here. Each day, I tell myself, "You have to get through this day and stay alive. You can't give up." Maybe it's Cassy who puts those thoughts in my mind. I don't know. I just take it one day at a time, hoping that some day, I won't want to die. In the meantime, I literally remind myself one breath at a time, to breathe through the pain.

All my life, I've looked much younger than my age. It's nothing for me to be mistaken to be my daughter's sister. It even happened with Cassy. Since she died, people look genuinely shocked when they find out Adam is my grandchild, not my child. They can't believe I'm old enough to have a grandchild. But when I happen to catch my reflection in a window or mirror, I can't believe they can't look into my eyes and see the sadness that lives there. I wonder why I don't look twice my age to them, when I feel that old. If I looked on the outside, the way I feel on the inside, I would be a horror movie monster no special effects could ever create. Maybe if we wore our grief on the outside, people would understand more about how we feel on the inside.