Last January, someone who I attend SFU with tried to tell me that the length that it takes to grieve the death of someone divided by 16 equaled the amount of time it should take to get over an ex. So, I asked him, “What if you never get over the loss of someone who has passed away?” He said, “Oh that’s impossible”.
I laughed at him. Not an internal laugh. Not a snicker. A full laugh out loud.
Thinking he was funny, he asked who would you have to lose in your life in order to never get over it. Straight faced, I told him, “My Mom”.
He went silent.
It got awkward. Really awkward.
He tried to reason and a friend of mine just told him that he doesn’t get to say anymore.
While he has the freedom of speech, he doesn’t get to degrade my emotions, trauma, and experiences by placing a timeline in which after a said amount of time I’m supposed to be magically healed. While I don’t know his past, I have a feeling that he probably hasn’t gone through anything remotely close to what I have. That’s ok and nor is it his fault and, I couldn’t ever wish upon my worst enemy the experience of losing their Mom in the way that I did.
I can feel people growing tiresome of me, of my constant state of sadness sometimes remotely masked to socialize, and the way that this experience has changed me.
Losing my Mom doesn’t define me, but it is part of my definition. When I lost my Mom, I lost a part of me. I lost the person whom I was closest with, I lost my best friend, and I lost my biggest role model. I am a Mommy’s girl; I always have been and I always will be a Mommy’s girl (no offense Dad).
I am unapologetic about taking my time to heal and, if that takes my whole life then so be it. Let me just tell you right now, if you don’t want to deal with that, please step out of my life. I don’t need you.
I don’t know the relationship that you have with your Mom. Maybe you’re attached at the hip or maybe you never even met her. No matter what has happened in your life, although I may not agree with decisions that you have made, I still respect that it was that you wanted. Please do the same for me.
This is not spilled milk, I cannot just “get over it”, and this is not a small bruise.
When was the last time you talked to your Mom? Hugged her? Leaned on her for support? Now imagine if you never got to do that ever again. Yeah, it hurts to even think about, and even more painful to realize that this is my life now.
I am an open wound. This trauma cannot be healed with a band-aid or all the stitches in the world; no amount of binge eating or people telling me it will be okay will either.
What will help heal me? Time, writing, supportive people and long tight hugs that make me feel safe and that my sanity is not crumbling before me.
I was afraid of grieving, and to be honest there are still parts of me that resist the healing process. I tried to push it all away, and it worked for a while, but in the long run, an untreated wound never heals and leaves an even bigger scar.
So here I am, unapologetically crying on a plane to California while reading over old text messages from people right after my Mom passed. Maybe one day I’ll be okay reading them, but until then, find me unapologetically with a box of tissues next to me while I try and wrap my head what has happened. Either sit next to me or get off this flight.
Sophie
You can also read this article as well as many others by Sophie on her blog, here: https://sophiecummingss.wordpress.com