If you have ever had the misfortune of
losing someone close to you, then you will have undoubtedly heard the
practically reflex response from well-meaning sympathizers: "Time heals all wounds." A little over five years ago, I lost my
mother suddenly and unexpectedly, and I have spent the subsequent years
focusing my energy toward healing the gaping wound in my soul. Or so I thought. If depression threatened to overcome my mood,
I banished the emotions until I could properly deal with them. I reminisced with family and friends,
remembering both the good and the bad times.
I cried judiciously but never overindulged, and I did as the psychology
textbooks suggested by working through the varying stages of grief. In fact, my armchair mental health
self-assessment was that of recovery. With
each passing day, I felt like I had taken one more step to finally being okay—or
as okay as was possible—that she was gone.
I made terms with not being able to see her again, and I understood that
I could not let her death define my life.
Why then did the fifth anniversary of her
passing followed shortly thereafter by Mother's Day cause me to spin into a
practically uncontrollable state of depression, denial, and pain? After five years, shouldn't time have started
healing those wounds? Instead, these
past weeks have been nearly as painful as the first weeks following her death,
and I struggled to understand why.
By nature, I am a rational person who scrutinizes
problems and makes decisions based on logical reasoning, but what I came to
understand this year is that grief is not a solvable problem. There are no simple series of actions which
you can employ to fix it. Grief is raw. It leaves you racked with exhaustion and
sorrow, helpless and alone. It can come
on suddenly or slowly build, but grief will find you. There is nothing you can do to hide from it,
to stop it, or to solve it. As my mom
liked to say: "It is what it
is."
The depression and anxiety slapped me hard
across the face this year, and I was forced to deal with emotions I had not
felt in a long time. Grief forced me to
stop reasoning my way out of it. It would
not permit me to distract myself, nor would it let me escape without
breathlessly sobbing, not the choked back, restrained tears I allowed myself in
the past. This year, grief wanted
something more from me, and I had to give up control and indulge.
Coinciding with my breakdown was the first
year I had to work on the anniversary of her death. Usually, I could take the day off, but I co-own
an up-and-coming lingerie boutique in North Carolina. Without my presence at the store, we need to
close our doors, a sacrifice in sales I cannot justify. As a result, I put on my best fake smile,
played upbeat music all day, and generally found whatever tasks would keep me
the busiest and less able to reflect on the loss.
Ironically, working actually allowed my
grief and denial to gain access to my emotions.
You see, without my mom, there would be no store, and I was keenly aware
of her presence, or non-presence as the case may be. Her spirit infuses the business as much as if she worked in the shop alongside me,
and working that day allowed me to contemplate the ways in which she prepared
me for life and for the challenges I would face.
My mom did not take any backtalk or excuses from
my brother and me, and she instituted firm but fair rules for us to
follow. When adolescent rebellion
threatened my studies, she grounded me and explained that she had no problem
with me earning a “C” in a subject provided I truly earned it. “If you worked hard and really tried, and the
best you could do was C, then I would be very proud of you.” Failure was not only acceptable but a
necessary part of learning and growing up according to my mom, but only if we
had given our all in the attempt. She
never approved of “coasting by” with the bare minimum, and her encouragement to
strive for excellence drives the mission of my business. Because her dedication and passion rubbed
off on me over the years, I do not strive to own an average bra shop nor do I
strive to own a wildly successful one if it comes at the cost of our core
values.
Despite her encouragement and sometimes prodding,
my mom was not afraid to step to the sidelines and let us experience life independent
of her protection. In a touching letter
I still posses, she told me she would always be there for me, “two steps behind
and a little to the left.” She wanted to
give us the skills we needed to succeed on our own and the confidence to chase
after our dreams. What is my business if
not a dream realized?
Her friendship and loving support was not limited
to her family either. My mom never met a
stranger. She was warm, kind, and
welcoming to everyone, and she would help others in any way she could—a trait
she instilled in my brother and me. She
allowed us to be selfish in moderation since taking time for yourself is
important too, but she wanted us to look beyond ourselves and think of how our
decisions, how our actions, and how our words impacted others.
But, her wisdom expanded into the practical realm
as well. We watched decorating shows
together all the time, and she was a whiz with the sewing machine. She could change the entire look of a room
with a $50 budget, so when we (Edit Note: 'we' being Erica and her business associates, as she opened her lingerie boutique after Lynn's passing) began upfitting the store, we searched for
bargains, made our own furniture, and opted for a bolder color on the walls to
inject some fun into the space. When she
was alive, we engaged in our own projects on more than one occasion from
refinishing a jewelry cabinet to repainting the house.
Memories and
feelings I had denied myself access to came barreling back no matter how hard I
fought them, and I had no choice but to finally allow myself to feel the
loss. What I
realized after so many years of waging an aggressive war with my grief was that
it's okay. To grieve is not to be
weak. Grief is normal and healthy, and
there is no shame in not being able to wholly move on or to fully heal. As much as we may wish that time could erase
all of the pain and heartache we suffer, it can't. Time can mitigate a lot of things, perhaps to
an extent grief is one of them, but we shouldn't be made to feel that after an
arbitrary amount of time, the wound will heal or that it even can heal for that
matter. Grief is what it is, and accepting
that has made me more at peace with her passing—not healed and not recovered
but accepting.
To close, I want to say something I never said
enough to my mom when she was a live:
"Thank you for believing in me and raising me to be the person I
am." I will forever in debt be to
the woman who loved her children above anyone or anything else in this world,
and I wish with my whole heart that you could be here to see what we have built
and share the experience. You are my
inspiration, and I will forever look two steps behind and a little to the left
hoping you’ll be there.
