“We run from
grief because loss scares us, yet our hearts reach toward grief because the
broken parts want to mend.” ~ Brene Brown, Rising Strong
As a licensed
mental health counselor, I am no stranger to grief and loss. I confront it every day that I sit with my
clients, holding their hearts as they process their pain. Over the last six years that I’ve sat with
people, I’ve discovered that the grief process is exponentially greater during
the holidays. The holidays have a way of
showing us what we’ve lost – what we have and don’t have, and both can be
equally painful. When the holidays end,
it can be easy to believe that the loss fades more to the background…maybe it’s
not quite as stark, maybe there are not quite as many in your face
reminders. But does loss ever leave us?
In just about
one week, on January 14th, I will be reminded that it would have
been my 12th wedding anniversary this year. I was only married for a year, and it was for
the most part the worst year of my life.
I don’t miss the man; I have no desire to go back and be married to
him. And yet, I still remember the date. I think I always will. Some moments in our lives will never be
forgotten. And while the year that
followed was hell, I actually truly loved my wedding day. I remember vividly what it was like to be the
bride – to enter into that holy and sacred space of promising forever.
In what is too
long a story to share here, my marriage abruptly ended when my husband walked
out the door a year after we were married.
Both leading up to his departure and the year prior leading up to our
wedding were filled with drama and pain and fear and sorrow. Needless to say, the holidays have not been
my favorite time of the year since, as they often trigger memories and tough
feelings.
In spite of not
knowing a lot, I intuitively recognized when my husband left that I would have
to fight for me. I would have to figure
out who I was and what I wanted and how I wanted life to look. I’m a bit stubborn, and I refused to allow him
to ruin a time of year I have always loved.
To that end, to this day I generally put up my Christmas decorations
super early – sometime around Halloween.
I watch my favorite Christmas movies.
I try to do fun activities during the holidays. I fight to make the time special for me.
But in the late
night or early morning hours, it’s still really hard. It’s still super lonely. It sucks to wake up alone on Christmas
morning. Even knowing I am welcome in
multiple places with multiple people and am blessed with loving friends and
family, my little “family unit” is just me.
And that is really really hard.
For the last 13
½ years, my family unit has also included my cat Ellie. I rescued her as a kitten, and we had a
glorious adventure together. She was
there for the hard parts, the dark nights, and she was there for amazing and fun
times. She was my family, and she was
always there on the Christmas mornings when I woke up alone.
On December 15th,
she left this world for heaven, and the process was and is one of the hardest
things I have ever been through. Her
death made all the lonely feel that much lonelier. I loved her greatly – she filled more holes
than I knew until she was gone – and I grieve her greatly as well. She was seriously one of the best cats I have
ever known and I will miss her always.
Coupled with the
triggers and pain the holidays already contained, losing my cat ten days before
Christmas made everything worse. I knew
she was special to me, but I had no idea how horribly empty and lonely my
apartment and my heart would feel without her around. Not having a living creature with me in my
apartment was just really not okay with me and so despite thinking I’d need a
super long time before I brought in any other pets, two weeks after her death I
found myself with two five month old rescue kittens.
Lest you think
they have suddenly cured my grief, let me assure you that in many ways they
have made it worse. They are not
Ellie. They are super different than
her. They are brothers, and they are
crazy. They poop a lot and it
smells. They require much more attention
and effort to manage than she did. They
are amazing and adorable and funny, and they bring life back to my
apartment. But they are not her.
I’ve had a
couple of moments of buyer’s remorse since bringing them home, through no fault
of their own. Mostly, it’s times when
they are doing something that makes it so evident that Ellie isn’t here. But I’ve also found myself struggling to
attach to them. It’s not because
something is wrong with them. It’s
because I am afraid of feeling this way again.
The pain of Ellie is still so great, and let’s be honest – it’s not
really something I’m jumping at the chance to experience anytime soon. And if I attach to these guys, I open myself
up to the possibility of more loss and grief and pain.
I can’t speak to
anyone’s journey but my own, and granted, in these eleven years, I have gone
through a demanding master’s program to get my counseling degree and spent
years in therapy. But I am beginning to slowly
grasp this piece of understanding: we will find the truest parts of ourselves
when we face our grief.
I didn’t know
that ten years ago, but I hope I’m a little wiser this time around. I am discovering all over again that
accepting and feeling my grief allows me to tap into all the parts of who I am. I cannot know joy without pain. And the sad parts don’t have to be scary to
face. They are me too. They mean something or someone matters. They mean I care. I love.
I am capable of much. I have deep
feelings and the expression of those is important. The things I care about – including a simple
cat – are okay. It is okay to be
me. I am awesome. 😊
Grief also
reminds us that life is fleeting. When I
took Ellie to the vet the first time, I had no idea she would be dead five days
later. It happened unexpectedly. I didn’t know I was experiencing “lasts” with
her until it was all over. I think so
often we try to avoid the vulnerability of opening ourselves up and truly
loving another because we don’t want to feel how I feel now. But I wouldn’t trade my pain for any of the
13 ½ years of memories that I have. Even
though I struggle now to allow myself to open back up, the desire is still
there to connect. To know and be
known. To love. Because I know once again that love is worth
the pain of loss.
I’ve told you
who my new kitties are not, but let me tell you about who they are. Even after spending less than 2 weeks with
them so far, their little personalities are coming out strong.
Charlie was the
runt of the litter. He is a fun mixture
of standing on the sidelines and trying to prove he’s just as strong as anyone
else. He eats his wet cat food at night
like someone is going to take it from him.
He is more tentative. He looks
like it hurts his feelings when I play with his brother and not him. He loves to carry toy mice around in his
mouth. He snuggles – on his terms – and
purrs super loud. He listens and wants
to please and when he can finally relax and know he’s loved without having to
prove anything, he will have a great kitty life.
Rizzo is the
explorer, and he is not afraid to look for adventures. He loves playing with all of his toys and
racing around rooms and leaping off furniture.
He also really loves to get on the kitchen counter, even though he knows
he is not supposed to be there. He is
deliberate, he likes attention, and he wants to be in the middle of all the
things. He also purrs super loud, and he
loves to snuggle. He likes to knead his
paws on everything, and he licks his brother and cares for him when he is not
attacking him.
This is a tough
season. I am sad, I really and truly
miss my cat, I am depressed, everything feels heavy, and it’s hard to be around
people and be engaged. But by allowing
myself the space to feel all of those things, my broken parts have a place to
mend. I am meeting myself in a deeper
way. I want to live 2018 with more
intention and to be the most myself I’ve ever been. I want to love deeper and not live in fear of the losses that will at some point come.
