This fourth "deathiversary" was a good example of the awkwardness of grief wedged into the mundane.
For my hubby it was a workday, so he carried his sadness in his pocket and went about his day with necessary normalcy.
I had "cleared my decks" in preparation for these days of memory. With no appointments or plans, I left my heart all the room to feel however it wanted to feel about these days.
There are two consecutive days that I mark each year; the day that our Michael took his life and the next day, when he was found by a friend who went to his home to see why he hadn't come to work.
In many ways, these days passed in completely normal ways. The sun shone, we ate meals, we took the dog out for potty walks. Also, I took a lawn chair up to the cemetery and hung out for a while. His ashes don't live there yet, but the headstone is in place. Aside from the cemetery time, anyone seeing me through most of either day would never have guessed it was a heavier day than most. It all looked very...normal.
And then there is the other side. It looks like any other day, but it also looks like this weary mom lying in bed, curled around a metal box packed with the crumbled bones of our beloved son, breaking my heart.
I rarely let the agony out to play.
Based on comments I've received, from well-meaning people who love me, I guess people think that if I'll just let the feelings out, they'll...I don't know...pass...or dissipate. And I'll be fine. Like if I just have one really good cry (as if I haven't!) then I can dust off my hands and...move on.
Here's the thing...there is no bottom to this pain.
It's not walking through the fire...as if it has an exit or end that leads to the rest of life. It is living life, every day, in the fire. This is not something I pass through, to get to the rest of my life.
This IS the rest of my life!
The. Rest. Of. My. Life...
...I will live with the very present, painful reality of the death of our child. That will never change. It will never go away. It will never be okay. It will never stop being permanently, intensely painful. No amount of grieving will change what is true- that our son is no longer alive.
Yes, I seem "fine" most of the time.
Also, I am always this intensely heartbroken, deep inside where most people do not see.
I just cannot go through life wearing my agony on the front of my face.
I don't stuff it out of sight and pretend it's not real. I am always fully aware of its presence, existing alongside everything else. I experience peace and fun and even delighted joy.
And all of it is alongside this also-truth of deep sadness.
Because I seem "fine" most of the time, it can seem to some people that maybe it's really not that bad. For those who wear all of their emotions openly, I can see how this could be confusing. This is not how I roll. My life has taught me to hold my true feelings in one place while functioning in another. This practice of compartmentalizing enabled me to hold onto my sanity in the wake of Michael's suicide. It makes it possible for me to function, and even to live a full and happy life, while also holding close the truth of my terrible sadness. This does give the impression that I am, somehow, fine, because I am not visibly in torment and can often speak of our loss calmly.
(Sidenote: Being "fine" takes a tremendous amount of energy. It's part of why I am often very tired.)
All appearances to the contrary, let me say...
Having our beloved Michael kill himself is always, in every single moment, waking or sleeping, the most shocking and agonizingly hideous truth of my entire life.
It is horrible in ways I cannot even begin to explain. Always. Every moment.
Yes, I live with the matchless, blessed peace of God filling and healing my heart.
Also, having the peace of God does not mean not being sad!!!!
Even with the very real peace of God, it's not a one-or-the-other deal.
I have the peace of God.
I am also very sad.
And that is okay.
