The Lightness of Love

I have a few visceral memories that come to me when I most need comfort. I believe my brain honed this tool at a certain point in my childhood and has continued to utilize this tool throughout my life. One of these memories is of my very first apartment, just me, no roommates, and no boyfriend. My family helped move me in and my aunt and I put yellow and blue contact paper on the shelves of the small walk-in closet in my bedroom. The closet had shelving all around it and just about a 3X3 area to stand in. I remember the smell, wood; cloves; fresh contact paper; paint. This memory came to me four nights ago. Chris and I had a bad day. Sometime after midnight we went to bed and in the safety and warmth of our bed we talked and cried. We had been embroiled in frustration and anger with one another for a couple of days. I was pushing Chris to grieve with me. Join me in grief share. Talk to me, tell me, lean on me, do this grieving process PROPERLY. I’d been sending him, the kids, and myself information about grieving. Podcasts, articles, links, and notes about why we must grief properly so we can HEAL. Chris would not agree to do these things. He pulled away. I pushed in. He pulled away. I made accusations. I got so far in my head. I was a walking, talking, open wound. We both realized that what was occurring was akin to immense pressure growing within us that needed a release valve to be opened…and it was. After we cried together and heard each other…Chris went to sleep. I did not. I have not been sleeping well for weeks. I can’t shut my brain off. And that was when the memory came to me. I’m there in my first apartment. I’m alone for the first time in my own place. I’m putting away my clothes, and trinkets and jewelry in my freshly painted closet with freshly laid contact paper. I’ve got a little “boom box” playing Wynona’s album Revelations. Although I am certain there was some angsty 24-year-old nonsense about some boy, I am carefree otherwise. I’m not worried about much. Even though I have little money, I’m not worried about it. Even though my purse is not designer, nor my many shoes…I’m not feeling less than. My eyelashes are still my own, not extensions. My make up was then, as it is now, drug store brand. I likely colored my own hair. I was not listening to a podcast and trying to relate, or praying to find a book to listen to on audible that will help me fix me, fix others, fix it all. As I allow this memory to come to me fully, I can feel that I somehow knew that everyone had their own journey to wherever they were going. I can feel that I had not yet taken the weight of others pain on my shoulders. I can sense that I am not thinking about how to fix me or others. I am light. And that is when an epiphany happened. Light, as in not heavy. Not light, as in not dark. Light. aHA!

I am not currently light. I am heavy as hell with all the weight I walk around putting on my own shoulders and that weight makes me feel lonely. Isolated. Fearful. Worried. I hurt my own feelings on an hourly basis. I’m in my head. And my head is not well. But as I laid there feeling that memory so viscerally and remembering that girl so clearly, some BIG help came to me. First, I reflected on some recent work I’ve done to quiet who I called 12-year-old Mandy. 12-year-old Mandy was my protector, and she kept her anger on her sleeve and used it to protect me. I needed her at one point in my life but at 47, desiring healthier relationships and a healthier me, I had to let her go. I had a ceremony at the ocean with my dearest friend, and we bid her farewell.

But this Mandy, this 24-year-old Mandy who is wise beyond her years and knows everyone has their own journey to travel…I cling to her. She is light. Why have I painted her as selfish? She simply was. And now I need to simply be. I do not need to feel like I can fix everything for everyone…. especially not during this time. I don’t even need to fix me. I need to grieve in my own way and allow my loved ones to grieve in their own way. There is no “proper” way to grieve the loss of a child. There is no “proper” way to grieve any loss. It’s messy (I hate messes, and this is why I do this crazy shit). It’s ugly (let’s put some make up on it). It’s hard. It feels never ending. It’s dark. It. Is. Heavy.

But not 24-year-old Mandy. She is light. She is teaching me. My highest self, my friend…she has reached out to me to remind me about the lightness of love.