What Lies Beneath

My emotions are very near the surface.  Always have been.  Ask my kids.  I'm a crier.  I mean I don't boo hoo at the drop of a hat but I am, as my mother has always said, sensitive.

Not that I'm a marshmallow.  To the contrary...I'm Mother Courage, baby.  My upbringing galvanized me.  I consider myself a very strong person.  But I am inordinately sensitive.

My emotions poke through at the most inopportune times...church...the Star Spangled  Banner...and that damn Edelweiss. The old eyes start brimming up.

Why is this?  Why am I so sensitive?  I think a lot of it is just my personality.  And a lot of it is my experiencing an emotional grenade in my childhood and NEVER having my grief - my fears and emotions, aired.  Unreconciled grief I believe is the term.

Recently I attended training necessary to work as a group facilitator for a non-profit for bereavement counseling, specifically for children.  It is my fledging effort to give back, to help those, who like me have suffered a loss.

The training was small and intimate, about a dozen people.  Myself and another gentleman were by far the oldest participants.  The majority of my classmates were attending to satisfy a degree requirement for their counseling license.  All young women and they all looked like they had received the same memo about dress code.  All slim, all impeccably dressed, legs crossed at the ankles, demure, educated...controlled.  I could tell their emotions were in control.  I was in trouble.

As I sat and scanned the agenda for the first day, my eyes zeroed in on a line about midway down the 'morning' portion of the agenda.  The words gave me pause...Circle time...Sharing our stories.

Now why on earth did I not think that we were all going to need to share our stories???  It was training for grief counseling, for crying out loud!  Still, there I was, shaking in my boots over the prospect of telling my story.

Not that I hadn't told it before...and not that I didn't know exactly how that was going to go down.  I can write about it just fine - no live audience; no sets of eyeballs trained on you, watching your every move.  If asked details about the death, I usually shut down because I can't get it out all the way through without my voice catching and my eyes welling up.  That started immediately when I returned to first grade after "The Death", after the Christmas holidays.  We lived in a fairly small town so my father's head on car crash death made for big news among the families of my classmates.  First graders are especially insensitive to something they can't totally comprehend so I can harbor no ill will toward the group of three or four of my male classmates who relentlessly dogged me at the lunch table for details in those early days after "The Death".

"Was there alot of blood?!" this particular little ghoul asked.  Feral little mouth breather...he invaded my personal space waiting for my answer, his two equally miscreant cronies looming close behind him.  I distinctly remember not being able to respond, not being able to find the right words or even how to begin.  And NOT wanting to share with this particular person.  Panicked. I remember feeling trapped; cornered.   I didn't speak but I dissolved into tears.  The first of many instances in that first year where I felt cornered...desperate...alone...devastated...and different.  If the floor could have just opened and swallowed me up, it would have done me an enormous favor.

I soon learned to push the grief down; to bury the sadness and to steer clear of any conversation regarding "The Death" of my father.  Over the years, starting with day one - the day of "The Death", I knew that talking about it made others uncomfortable.  Particularly my mother.  And I never spoke of my father with my mother in those early days.  It was too raw and I loved my mom and did not like to see her cry.  So we didn't talk about it...or him.

With others, as I got older I generally did not share gratuituously.  It would come out in conversation, usually during the 'getting to know you' stage of any relationship:  friend, boyfriend, etc.  When I was older I just couldn't hack the look of pity I invariably got when telling of my loss.  Well meaning people trying to be nice but just reinforcing what I all too painfully knew:  that my life was deficit; I would have to do without; I was without a parent; without a father.

So there I was in group share.  The way it went:  we were to go around the circle and each introduce ourselves and say why we were there, why we were training to be facilitators.  They asked for volunteers.  Pause...pause.  Up went my hand.  I wanted to go first.  Wanted to get it over quickly.

I told them my name and where I worked.  That I had two kids and was looking for something 'to feed my soul'.

And...

"I lost my father when I was six years old".

I  barely got that out. And I choked.  I could feel my throat closing and my voice caught as I said that last sentence.

Fini.  I sat there in awkward silence signaling THE END of my story.  The moderator sat for a split second searching my face.  Nope, lady...that's it.  On to the next victim.

Thank God the next person, the older gentleman, delivered.  Big time. Not only did he weep, he did so with wracked sobs.  I felt badly for him and his recounting of his loss but he took the heat off.

So around we went in the circle.  After the older gentleman there was the remainder of the group, all the clones introducing themselves and telling their story of loss.  One young woman lost her grammy...OK sad but Grammy was 80 years old.  Then one young woman had lost her mom to cancer when she was eleven.  I listened intently and I was impressed by her.  No tears.  Looking at her, I put her age at around 25 or 26 so I put her loss at happening about 15 years ago or so.  Look at me, in my fifties, and I still could not share my story; here she was and her demeanor was poised and purposeful.  She went on to say that she actually had attended the non-profit for which we were now all training.  She said the facility helped immensely and that her dad had been there for her and gently encouraged her to explore her grief.

So it was possible...to actually move on, move forward - still sad and with a sense of loss, mind you, - but continue to progress with your life, your journey.

After we went all around and everyone contributed with their stories, we adjourned from our circle formation and returned to our tables to listen to our guest instructor.  Let's call him Mark.  Mark had just sat in circle time with us and listened to all our stories.  He lectured, briefly, on factors which affect the grieving process.  Then he proceeded to tell his own story.

He told of a perfectly normal workday morning.  His wife, a teacher, had just left for work - a less than three mile commute. He told of getting their second grader ready for school.  He told of hearing the sirens not long after his wife left...of the call he received telling him he needed to get to the hospital - FAST.  The sirens he heard were from the emergency vehicles attending to the car accident that involved his wife.

He spoke eloquently and very thoughtfully of how he numbly moved through the worst scenario of his life.  Arriving at the hospital...of the doctor coming to tell him his wife didn't make it.  His feeling of disbelief, of total devastation, of anguish.  He spoke of pulling himself together to do the hardest thing he would ever have to do:  tell his young daughter her mother was gone.

He looked over at me then and our eyes met.  "My daughter was seven years old.  You said you were six when you lost your father.  When I talk to school groups I ask the second graders to stand up...so people can see them.  See how a second grader looks, how they stand.  They are so little.  And they only comprehend so much."

I felt the cloud move over me.  Oh God, please, please not now.  I didn't want to lose it.  Not in front of all these people.  I quickly glanced around the room.  No one else was crying.  How in the fuck could they not be moved?!  I felt the emotions just kick in, bubble up to the surface.  I felt that rush of vulnerability.  And then I did something I hadn't done in over 45 years.  I tightly clamped my mouth shut and plastered my tongue to the roof of my mouth.  And self pacified.  I essentially was sucking way back in throat, like sucking my thumb but without the thumb.  That actually gave me pause.  It shocked me.  I prayed no one could tell.

 Oh I was crying alright.  Sitting rock still, staring straight ahead at our speaker.  The tears were brimming and then diving out of my eyes.  The more I blinked seemed to produce MORE tears.  Our speaker's voice caught and he had to stop while he yielded to his own emotions at the remembrance.  That destroyed me.

The rest of his story was straightforward and inspiring.  Mark spoke of love and loss and moving forward but never, never forgetting.  That's the fallacy...that we 'get over things'.  The loss of a loved one you never get over.  You learn to live with it but you never get over it.  It was good to hear this spoken.

So Mark's session ended and we proceeded with the rest of our training for that day.  I remained a passionate observer, listening and learning.  One of the things we learned is that you never 'call' on someone in group; they should only participate if they are willing to...if they are up to it.  Group is meant to be a safe place to share and listen and learn copying skills. We closed our training for the weekend and I left feeling good.  Even though most of what we covered in group was no news flash, hearing it - having it out there on the table - certainly validated any feelings and emotions that I have suppressed or felt for my entire life.  I left wanting to learn more on enabling others to feel as enlightened and I also knew I needed to share my own story in the next training session.

So for the week in between sessions, I started taking my anti-depressants again.  These I had not taken, nor needed, since my divorce nine months hence.  But I recognized that I would need them to help, at least for the one day that I would be in the spotlight, help to keep my emotions in check.

The next Saturday we were back in training and I was feeling strong and confident and had clarity of mind.  My time to share was about to happen...and quite unscripted as it turned out.

The topic we were discussing was how a child may turn inward with their emotions as to not upset the surviving parent.  Fight or flight, I think it is called.  How one child may act out because of their grief and one child may seem to be calmly dealing with it, with little to no outward personality changes.  The child acting out is ministered to with the thought that they are not dealing with their situation when, in fact, acting out is dealing with it, is expressing their grief, their emotions.  I was the classic flight example.  I turned inward, way inward.  I became even more quiet; more reserved.  I was shy to begin with but my loss took my shyness to a new level.  I also became very dutiful.  I excelled in school, becoming the top student in my class, year after year.  I strived to be the best, so much that starting in second grade, each year some teacher would write on my report card that "__________ needs to relax.  __________ needs to feel less of the need to be perfect in every area."   I sucked up all my insecurities until I was about ready to pop.  Then my sadness and my worry and any other negative feeling would come bubbling up to the surface. But I tried to hold it together for my mother.  I guess in a way it caused me to grow up at age six.  I, in a way, looked out for my mother by not giving in to my grief; by suppressing it for as long as I could.

Our facilitator lead our discussion along the path of the feeling that the loss of one parent is almost like losing two because of how the surviving parent fares, how they cope.  I guess I looked open to that concept, looked like I recognized that trait, looked like I had experience in that area.

"What would you like to contribute to that?" our moderator looked right at me.  Hey...I thought 'calling' on people was a no-no?

Without hesitation I delivered.

"In a way, when I lost my father, I lost my mother too.  My father went out one evening after my mother and I had gone to bed.  He was involved in an car accident.  He was driving on the wrong side of the road.  He took out a whole carload of people.  To say my mother was decimated is an understatement.

I was six years old.

And it was Christmas Eve."

With those words, I heard a cacophony of anguished groans rise up to the left of me.

I had told my long awaited story.

I guess you could say I killed at group that day.

So my eyes are moist writing this.  It is my story and mine alone.  Nearly fifty years after the fact, someone was actually interested in hearing it.  I understand now the importance of talking about it; of not dwelling on it but rather, sharing so maybe someone else will relate.  My fears, sadness and loss were never addressed, never validated.  I hold no resentment to those in charge of me in my childhood; we were all just finding our way I guess through an unimaginable time.  I'm wondering what my teachers thought?  I do remember my mother being defensive in relating a story about my second grade teacher telling her I was acting very isolated; standing way apart from my classmates on the playground, not joining in with the others.  I guess she had tried to address my demeanor, which at best could be described as withdrawn.  My mother, who is not and has never been a great communicator, took umbrage at her words and therein ended, I imagine, any outside influence intervening on my behalf.

Someone has written that grief never goes away really; that it can be suppressed; lie dormant.

And then it can come back and make it's presence known and be a wolf at the door.

Not to play the blame game but I believe my difficulty with relationships has a great deal to do with my father's death.  I had - have - relationship fears, I guess.  Fears of abandonment, lack of trust, lack of intimacy.  And the fears were never addressed.

I am a master mason - I can throw up a brick wall in no time flat.  Back in my single days, I was very adept at squelching any decent suitor fairly early on in the relationship.  Curiously, I never slept with any of the good prospects.  And why was that??  Why did I nip in the bud any nice, caring young man?  I always, always dismissed it as not having chemistry with whatever guy.  That they would bore me. Really?  What was behind my lack of commitment to even explore a relationship?  Fear of perhaps having something good and then losing it?  Or perhaps my own feelings of inadequacy and not wanting to built a relationship only to have the guy find out - find out that I was lacking in the trust department, in the intimacy department; of me generally thinking I was not good enough because I was so abysmally lacking in the most basic of life's fruits.  My family was so fractured, sadly even before my father's death.  His exit just cemented that fact.

So I am continuing onward...slowly, minutely making strides in self expression, self exploration.  The revealing isn't really that egregious actually.  Time has told me that there's always someone worse off than me.    In a way, I'm proud of my struggles, of my twisted family background.  My history makes me uniquely me.  I actually have to chuckle to myself when thinking about some of the shit that has gone down in my family tree.  A lesser person would buckle under the mental and emotional strain.  In a weird kind of way, I can actually withstand a lot because - and in spite - of it.  I have learned to use it to my advantage, I guess.  Keeps me sane...