It’s been a weird week, full of reading, processing, hoping, praying, thanking, and processing some more. Some weeks are heavier than others.
A few days ago, I shared a link to an article/essay, but really a letter. This letter is to the “Friend of a Bereaved Parent” and asks for time, patience, and understanding as the parent (a suicide survivor mom) grieves her child. The first paragraph says, “If you are the friend reading this, please recall these messages and feelings we experience when we, those of us who are Bereaved Parents, have somehow perceived to have let you down, changed, or you just simply do not know how to react to our loss.” The letter goes on to explain why grieving our child takes so long—maybe forever.
The reasons are endless.
I have patient people in my life. People who love me anyway, who offer tissues, hugs, and understanding murmurs of “I know” when I cry, and don’t try to fix my broken bits. Of course there are the others—those who think I should be better or over it or back to my old self or at least quiet about it by now. They, too, have their reasons.
I am so grateful for the former and so weary of the latter. Even so, I’ve found myself losing patience, wishing myself along, looking for the old Tonya—Tonya of Before.
As the months slog past, it’s becoming more clear that I need to accept Tonya of After. Give her some grace. Will I get back to my old self? I have no idea. I don’t really think so, but I don’t know. Doesn’t seem to be happening anytime soon. No, it’s looking more and more like Tonya of After is taking over; I have to learn my new, unrequested life. Not a typo. I don’t mean “learn to love.” I mean learn. Study it. Get familiar. Discover the nuances.
There must be some nuances.
It would be easier to cram myself back into my former mold. Pick up your camera, Tonya, and go for a drive. Don’t want to leave the house? Take pictures of your idiot cats. It would be so much easier if I could fall into my old routines and habits and happy places, but I’d be pretending. Some folks favor the phrase “fake it ’til you make it.” I despise that phrase. It ranks right down there with “new normal.” I do enough pretending as it is, about the big, day-to-day expectations. Pretending about extras is just too much work. Do I still do the extras? Yes. I just don’t get the same emotional buzz. Maybe some of the joy will find its way back, but I can’t force it.
If you’d asked me my favorite hobby two years ago, I’d’ve immediately answered, “I love photography.” Now, I’m not sure I could come up with a favorite hobby. I like photography. Regardless of lack of skill, I like making things (not to be confused with cooking). I like hiking and riding trails and paddling around a lake. But do I love them? Meh. They are okay. Maybe I love writing. At the very least I like it quite a bit and it’s as close as I get to a hobby right now.
Much of the struggle is learning what fills in the gaps that didn’t exist two years ago. What makes me happy now? What brings peace of mind, body, soul? What leaves me better than it found me?
I love time well spent. Is that a hobby? Conversations that matter? Books that change me? A cause that can save lives? Helping someone else? Helping myself?
I’ve had many meaningful conversations in the past week; in some, I was helped and in others, (I think) I was the helper. I spent time with friends, laughing, talking, crying, dreaming, remembering. I read a book (Anne Lamott’s Help Thanks Wow) that felt written for me and tweaked my perspective on prayer. I laid the groundwork for a much-needed local support group and started making contacts and connections. I completed a brief refresher course on priorities, rallied prayer warriors, groaned, “Help,” whooshed, “Thanks,” and whispered, “Wow.”
I lived another week, and I lived it as Tonya of After. I lived the week with my adjusted perspective, firmly-aligned priorities, and evolving skill set. In the absence of my old self, I’m learning my new self.
The letter referenced at the beginning of this entry asks friends to “wait for us to come back.” I certainly know what the author meant and agree with what she’s saying. But what if it’s not a coming back?
What if, instead, it’s an emergence?
Woods Writes 