It’s been a while since I’ve written anything. Well, that’s not technically true. I have a few draft posts but I haven’t published anything in about a month. Every time I start, there’s a different thing I want to say and I can’t seem to commit to any one topic. They all have the same undercurrent though; variations on the fact that I’m still not all right.
I was motivated to write this after something someone said to me a few days ago. It reminded me again that most people seem to think I’m okay these days. Indeed, I’d say pretty much everyone assumes so except my husband and my grief counselor.
I’ve actually witnessed people be surprised when I say that Christopher still occupies my thoughts constantly and a couple of them have even momentarily forgotten that I lost him. (It’s okay. No one means any harm by it and my counselor tells me it’s a normal part of social interaction after the death of a loved one.)
It’s extremely hard to articulate why I will never be even close to okay again, but I’ll give it a shot. Let me take you back in time a bit.
Christopher was my third child so I was pretty well-versed in what it was like to be pregnant by the time he came around. Yet no matter how much experience you have, one thing that never changes is the internal and external pressure mothers face once they find out once they find out a baby is on the way.
Even though my previous pregnancies were textbook perfect, I was still filled with worry that something could go wrong. I was concerned whether I’d have enough energy to manage all nine months since I already had two boys under two, one still nursing. Would I get enough sleep? Was my nutrition sufficient? Was the baby healthy? Would the baby stay healthy? I worried about the same things that millions of mothers have thought about over the centuries. Such pressure.
The external pressures were no easier. People were concerned about all kinds of things; how I’d juggle pregnancy with two small children, whether I should work through this pregnancy as I had with the first two, should I continue nursing through the pregnancy (yeah, that one especially was nobody’s business). Even my otherwise wonderful doctor gave his standard advice that I shouldn’t sign any contracts in my “long-term hormonal state.” Pregnant women can’t be trusted to make good decisions, you see. More pressure.
Do you notice the thread running through all these concerns?
If anything happened to the baby before birth, it would be my fault. After all, I was solely responsible for its care and nurturing for the entire pregnancy. It was my job to grow a fully-formed and healthy baby, protecting it from harm at all costs. No one could do it for me and I could not fail. Pressure.
Once Christopher was born, he nursed exclusively for a long time so it continued to be my duty to keep him fed and healthy. I stayed home with the children so the primary responsibility fell on me to keep our new infant and older boys safe, clothed, and happy. (Mind you, I was glad to do all of this. No complaints!) Pressure.
Added to all this was the fact we were living in a Midwestern suburb in the early 2000s. Much like housekeeping and cooking, back then (and now, sadly) children were considered “women’s work” and everything about them from manners to reading ability was filtered through the lens of how well the mother was doing her job. (Let me be clear, their father was involved in their lives but also worked a great deal so I could stay home with the kids.) Pressure.
It felt like Christopher’s very existence from the moment of conception depended on every decision I made and nothing else. Failure was, as the saying goes, not an option. Pressure.
When I became a single parent, I went under a microscope the likes of which I’d never expected. Family, friends, and complete strangers had opinions. Everything I did was up for discussion and, many times, push back. The pressure to get everything right or face blame was, well, rough to say the least. At times, the bar was impossible to meet. (I realize this is a common scenario for single parents and not unique to me.) Pressure.
Despite my best efforts and intentions, of course I sometimes failed as a mother. However, my mistakes clearly weren’t unforgivable. As I’ve said before, we were talk-multiple-times-a-day close until the day Christopher died. Even so, I’ve been blamed for Christopher’s unhappiness in life, as well as blamed for his decision to take his life.
These factors combined — the stress to be a perfect mother, the sudden loss, the blame — add up to some pretty profound pressure. Is it any wonder I can’t just flip a switch after 18 years of it and suddenly be okay?
One thing I’ve learned from parent support groups is that the vast majority of mothers struggle with the same issue I do. People assume we’re doing better than we actually are. It’s a near-universal expectation I hear over and over from other moms. Some have even been told to “get over it.” (I haven’t, which is good because I’d probably be immediately charged with assault.)
Don’t think we don’t want to though, because this headspace causes a lot of collateral damage. Even though I try not to let it, the protracted grief has affected my health, my friendships, and my relationships with people close to me. It’s changed a lot about the way I think and the way I approach things. I guess it’s safe to say it’s fundamentally changed me.
I’d been cautioned by people who know about such things that the second year of grief is, in some ways, worse than the first. Unfortunately, that’s turning out to be true as I learn to confront and deal with a lot of things I’d set aside while white-knuckling it through the first year.
I’m working on setting boundaries to better protect myself. I’m trying to channel what little energy I have into things that bear fruit and to just let go of things that won’t. I’m trying to find little pockets of not-sadness wherever I can (expecting happiness is still elusive).
I also have to prepare myself to deal with another aspect of Christopher’s death in the next few weeks that will crush me all over again, but there’s no way around it. The only thing that would make it marginally easier is also out of reach, so it’s just basically pounding another nail into my heart.
I’m not under the external pressure I was during earlier times in my life. However, now there’s a self-imposed pressure to just get on with life since virtually everyone else has. But I’m not there yet and don’t know when I will be.
I’m just so tired.