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What Would Your Friends Say You’re Good At?

 

Remember in Back to the Future, the McFly family photo starts changing? Family members begin to disappear; it’s like they’re being erased. Eliminated. Eradicated.

I don’t know what better metaphor there is for my life right now. First I was like Dave McFly, with just my legs hanging around, half of me lingering there riding the roller coaster of emotions from before you left and after you left.

But now I’m just gone and I don’t know what to do with that. It’s empty and hollow in here. I don’t even know what I need.

It’s difficult to put into words how this all feels. Raw and tender, a gaping gash with no healing in sight. Just a fresh wound every day that festers with the passage of time. There is no salve, no balm, no vaccine, no band-aid that will make it better. I wander in this maze of grief, met with tall walls, winding paths, and resistance and road blocks around every corner.

My therapist (Dr. S) reminds me to pay attention to my black and white, all or nothing thinking. To really call it out, recognize it, and remind myself how it works to shape me and my reactions. I feel responsible for everything, the blame covers me like a blanket and I can’t breathe. Dr. S joked that before he even opened his mouth, I could likely list several things he’d say in response to my “agenda” for our last virtual therapy session. He tells me that means I’m not attending to my thoughts as often as I should be on a daily basis. Attending to them means actively stopping, focusing for a few minutes, and reframing my thoughts to remind myself there are shades of grey, that there’s a middle ground between here and there, a buoy and a sandbar that can save me from the storms crashing on either side.

*****
Yesterday was family therapy day, meaning I had two sessions back-to-back, one with each of my older daughters. In the second of those family sessions, Dr. B. grabbed a small, blue Chinese takeout box full of little pieces of card stock with questions typed on them. This is one of her activities that serves as a kind of ice breaker at the start of an appointment. My daughter and I take turns asking each other the questions, which are mostly easy, light, and not at all related to the heartache and heartbreak we’re there to heal from.

The first question I was asked was, “What would your friends say you’re good at?” Maybe it was the hour before and trying to triage the feelings stirred up by things my oldest said to me. Maybe it was the anticipation of what my middle was going to say to me in the next 45 minutes. Maybe it was the funeral I was going to after therapy. Regardless, I came up empty and my eyes began brimming with tears. The few things I thought of somehow felt invalid and I didn’t have the courage to say them out loud. I asked Dr. B if I could take a pass on that question and she nodded and quickly moved on. Then I was hit with a truckload of self-blame and shame for the example I was setting for my kid. What kind of mother does this? Dr. B handled it/me gracefully and acknowledged that I had a lot on my mind that had zero to do with my daughter in that moment. I was thankful for that. But the question is still nagging at me.

*****

Earlier this morning, I read The Wait of Motherhood  and it unraveled me. “We wait for them to come home again.” Except I don’t think mine are ever coming home to me again. There will be no mantle festooned with garlands, ribbons, and balloons with a homemade cake and Turkey Hill ice cream. Their Adidas shoes won’t be by the door nor will their clothes be on the floor. I try to sit with this, to prepare myself, but there is no manual and I don’t know how. There is no one to tell me how to live my life without my children. I will always be their mother, even if they don’t call me that anymore. I still struggle with the idea of being somehow stripped of my title, which I have spent the last 15+ years of my life living, breathing, and earning.

I just push myself to keep going, even though I don’t know which way or if it’s even in the right direction.

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