2002
Here's what discretion suggested I not disclose while swinging with Mom:
I chose not to say that in the aftermath of Dad's death, an intuitive feeling, inspired by the depth of my mother's sadness and regret, had directed me to embark upon a quest to learn how Janet's death may have caused my development to swerve away from the norm. As we were nearing the two year anniversary of Dad's death, I felt an instinctive pull to resume my routine, which meant spending less time with Mom. Since Dad's death, she and I had spent a good part of every day, together.
Though everyone kept telling me to take good care of myself, inner conflict divided my mind for this reason: On one side, intuition suggested my need for space while on the other, intution suggested that if I spent less time with Mom, while she was still mourning so deeply, she'd feel abandoned. Whenever I tried to discuss how sad the depth of her mourning made me feel, Mom's response was consistent: I can't help it, Annie.
In response to my having once said: Mom, I have to return to the land of the living—Mom replied—Well, I can't.
Interestingly, I'd noticed that Mom's cheerful smile appeared whenever she and I spent time with family and friends. It was when we spent time alone that the depth of her loneliness was revealed. Mom, I'd say, you're like two people. Why do you smile so readily whenever we're not alone?
I want people to want to be with me, Annie.
Mom, I need your smile, too.
Well then, who can I really be myself with—who will I talk to about how I really feel?
A therapist, Mom.
I don't need therapy.
Mom, you don't need therapy as long as you have me …
I began to invite others to join us when we were together until Mom asked me to do that less often. For the first few years after Dad's death, Mom, who'd been very social, felt comfortable with very few people.
Mom, there's a grief group that I'd like to go to with you, and it's right near your house.
I don't need it, Annie.
Well, I think I do—so will you humor me and come?
When Mom agreed, I felt hopeful.
We walked into a large room where at least twenty men and women, maybe twenty-five—some Mom's age, some mine—sat in a circle of chairs. Every one of them had lost a spouse. Some, like Mom were new to the group, others, who'd become friends, greeted each other with warmth. Those who had attended for a while helped those whose grief hung fresh with a sense of heaviness in the air. As conversation circled round to Mom and me, we introduced ourselves, and my spirit pulsed with hope that Mom, listening to those who were experiencing the same feelings that she'd continued to express to me, would seeking support and form new friendships within the group, but that was not to be. Instead, I watched Mom's smiling demeanor tell everyone in the circle how close we were and well she was doing.
Though Mom chose not to attend, again, I returned until the facilitator kindly suggested that a care giving group might serve my needs—and though I believed in the value of therapy as much then as I do now, my spirit had not yet sunk into that quicksand of despair, which would cause me to seek out a care giving group—though that would change when my loving efforts could no longer hold both heads above water. As another two or three years passed before I felt the need to seek help for myself, my quest into self awareness—which eventually identified the guilt trip that I'd sent myself on since the age of three—remained buried in my subconscious, numbed behind my wall of denial.
Throughout my lifetime, whenever I'd talked about Janet, I'd make reference to the baby's death.
When filling out family histories in doctors' offices, I'd always written 'Lauren' under siblings and though I'd checked 'living', it never once occurred to me to add 'Janet' and check 'deceased'.
Why not? I'd not consciously perceived of Janet as my sibling, who'd lived and died. I'd simply (?) thought of Janet as having been my mother and father's child.
At the age of three, my defense system (the self protective portion of my brain) had submerged my overwhelmed state of confusion, fear and pain into a deep freeze within my subconscious. Then, after locking those raw emotions out of my realm of consciousness, my defense system swallowed the key.
In this way did Mother Nature offer my cheerful spirit safe passage to go forth on its merry way, whistling through each day—while I'd scratch myself raw each wakeful night, highlighting the fact that a person's subconscious sense of confusion, fear and pain feels more invasive than the conscious mind perceives is true. In short, I'd spent my life walking on eggshells, waiting for the other shoe to drop—which is what happened when we lost Dad as suddenly as Janet … suggesting that both Mom and I had lots to learn about—ourselves …
Upon reflection, I'd grown up perceiving of this tragic episode in our lives as my parents' loss, not mine, until my father's sudden death catalyzed a change in our family dynamics that proved utterly unexpected, and not until I hit bottom, necessitating my engaging in therapy, did I gain insight into the fact that time, alone, does not heal all wounds—most especially raw wounds, which remain subconsciously blocked from conscious memory—as in—no pain/no gain. In short, I couldn't unfreeze the pain buried in my subconscious until I'd suffered a melt down of my own …
During the first two years after Dad's death, Janet began to come to mind much more frequently than ever before. And here's what made each of those mysterious moments feel surreal: Whenever Janet came to mind, tears began to cascade down my cheeks. I'd feel no sadness—yet. No fear. No guilt. No emotion, other than confusion. It seemed as though my tears would suddenly flow, as though all on their own and just wouldn't quit. As those tears flowed freely only when I was alone, how curiously confounding was that!
At some point, this conundrum aroused a dreaded sense of deja vu, which sparked my need to explore whatever was catalyzing this viseral reaction to emerge. As body, mind and spirit are connected, my quest into self awareness begin.
When we think about the brain, it's common for the thought processing center or memory bank to come to mind. In truth, our brains are much more complex than that.
The brain is a delicate instrument, composed of many interrelated parts. As one part of the brain serves as a subterranean storehouse for raw emotions, often times, today's experience causes that storehouse to spring a leak. If we compare the brain at work to an automobile, made up of complex interactive components, then guess what proves in need of a tune up if we want our lives to run smoothly? Otherwise, the decisions we make won't take us to where intuition suggests that we really need to go if our spirits are to soar more freely than ever before …
At times when we can't believe what a person said or did, we say: What were you thinking?
When that person responds with a confused shrug of the shoulders, we'd be wise to ask: Well, what were you feeling?—because in addition to storing memorable experiences, perceptions, misperceptions and facts in one portion of the brain, we store emotional reactions from years past, as well.
Just as facts emerge from storage, the same is true of yesteryear's emotional reactions, whether they'd been peaceful, joyful, impassioned, angry, shy or too painful to bear. Emotion too painful to bare to oneself signals Mother Nature to call upon the defense system to build a protective wall that numbs us to the depth of unhealed fear, guilt or despair …
Your brain and mine store emotion too painful to 'bare' in a locked storage unit, labeled DENIAL …
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