There is an old Chinese proverb that says, " You cannot prevent the birds of sorrow from flying over your head, but you can prevent them from building nests in your hair."
I loved that saying after Roman died and took it mean I needed to embrace inner calm if I was to silence the chatter of grief. Around that time meditation became a major coping tool. Making the best of the changes that came from loss, I often reminded myself of my newfound mantra. I tattooed a blue butterfly on my wrist where I could easily be reminded. And as it turned out, when I returned to work in the fall of 2007, I used it often. But before returning to work, Chris and I took a trip to the Hawaiian islands where I got the chance to really quiet the monster known as grief. In fact, I silenced it to the point of forgetting it was there.
Kauai was divine and the serenity that came with it gave me an unexpected sense of purpose. The feeling I got was healing, though paradoxically, while I had already reached the "acceptance phase" in acknowledging the reality of Roman's passing, my trip back to the islands also made it all that much more unbelievable in a way.
Roman and I were married in Oahu and honeymooned in Maui. Accordingly, my time in Kauai brought with it reminders of Roman's life and sudden death.
It turns out that the commonly held notion of grief occurring in phases is too simple. As was the case for me, the phases occurred simultaneously as well as sequentially. They also recycled and returned anew like the waves in the sea; as do recurring dreams or vivid memories. And achieving what I thought was acceptance gave me a false sense of security.
Grief was not gone...far from it.
I've said before that my recollection of the time following Roman's death is hazy. Our July 2007 trip to the tropics was no exception. I drank only a few cocktails the entire time, and yet my memory in hindsight feels almost drunken.
The warm surroundings were pristine. They calmed me, yet the rush of new love, combined with sting of constant reminders, made me feel intoxicated somehow. Detached in a way; not quite able to grasp it all...I was a bit in denial.
This I know now.
Hours during that trip were spent lying on the beach in silent meditation, just listening to the ebb and flow of the tides. I remember hearing them at night too as we fell asleep. Mental weightlessness washed over me with each swoosh and was a welcome contrast to the heaviness of my recent loss.
Still, even with the comfort of my new relationship with Chris and the joy that came with vacation, grief lingered in wait.
While grief took a quiet seat in the back of my mind, I was finally able to relax. And once we returned home from the trip, I was at ease enough to stop taking the antidepressant medications I started after my confrontation with the other woman.
Between the time spent on the beach and the happiness that came along with Chris's move to California, I felt calmer than I had in years.
I was still green when it came to grieving, though. I simply did not know it at the time.
The stress-free days of summer convinced me that I had turned a corner. And I had. But it was the first of a maze of corners...of countless corners.
Unknowingly, I was adrift with the false notion that I was "over" my loss. In fact, the thought almost makes me laugh today, especially in light of the challenges I faced once I returned to work that fall.
It didn't take long for me to realize that grief was alive and well within me. And because of its verve, my ability to cope with the demands of my job were compromised. Behaving uncharacteristically short tempered, I snapped at people over nothing and fought pointless battles that I once knew better than to choose.
On a particularly bad day at work, my difficulty became glaringly apparent. Being irritable and not realizing it, I had two confrontations, back to back with colleagues. Confrontation hadn't t been something I engaged in regularly prior to Roman's death - let alone twice in one day. Naturally then, I assumed that the others were to blame for our disagreements, so I attempted to to blow off steam by venting to a teacher about what happened. I was angry and as I spoke, I suddenly became aware of how little control I had over my emotions.
My voice cracked.
Tears streamed down my cheeks.
My colleague's face was compassionate, but I was mortified nonetheless. I couldn't keep it together. I wanted to climb from my own skin as I recognized my tears. I wanted to make it stop and make it all better, but I couldn't. And as a once type-A, perfectionist personality, such a thing had never happened to me before.
I could see in my coworker's expression that she was pulling for me. She was uncomfortable too, but no where near as uncomfortable as me.
It was the first time I cried openly at work. I was embarrassed and confused.
I had no idea how I would manage through a whole year, when I was already so frustrated in September. My mind was scattered and my skin felt too tight. At once, I was angry, sad, and anxious. My reactions had me vexed in light of the joy I felt during my time alone with Chris. Further, meditation and relaxation had served me well over the summer, but they were no match for the demands of my career. I felt like I was being engulfed by an invisible force.
What's more, by the fall, the one year anniversary of Roman's death was approaching and many of my co-workers knew that I had a new boyfriend. I started to feel pressure therefore to keep up appearances...to show others that I was handling things. I was moving on; I was strong. I had weathered a brutal storm. And though most people had no idea about Roman's affair or my impending divorce, I wanted to feel their respect. I wanted to exude professionalism. So even though I didn't feel at ease on the inside, I did my heart's best to keep from showing it. Tears and snap confrontations were not an option.
At the time, I didn't know I was allowed to have a breakdown.
With that, I made an appointment to see my doctor and got back on medication immediately.
It helped. I managed to make it through the second year after Roman died without another tear in front of a colleague. I was making strides. Keeping moving, I figured I was sure not to let those proverbial birds make a nest in my hair. I was surviving...Yet, I didn't understand why I felt so damn tired. Though, now of course, I know it was grief.
Grief was never silent.
It was me who was silent. At the time, I just wasn't ready to admit it.
Denial got me by and served me well. Meanwhile, the birds of sorrow nested comfortably in my hair.
