by: Andy Gear, PLPC
I remember those first
moments after the accident as if everything was happening in slow motion. They
are frozen in my memory with terrible vividness. After recovering my breath, I
turned to survey the damage. The scene was chaotic. I remember the look of
terror on the faces of my children and the feeling of horror that swept over me
when I saw the unconscious and broken bodies of Lynda, my four-year-old
daughter Diane Jane, and my mother. I remember getting Catherine (then eight),
David (seven), and John (two) out of the van through my door, the only one that
would open. I remember taking pulses, doing mouth-to-mouth resuscitation,
trying to save the dying and calm the living. I remember the feeling of panic
that struck my soul as I watched Lynda, my mother, and Diana Jane all die
before my eyes. I remember the pandemonium that followed—people gawking, lights
flashing from emergency vehicles, a helicopter whirring overhead, cars lining
up, medical experts doing what they could to help. And I remember the
realization sweeping over me that I would soon plunge into a darkness from
which I might never again emerge as a sane, normal, believing man.
–Jerry Sittser, A
Grace Disguised
I remember a time when I experienced loss. As I walked home that evening, I remember telling myself this isn’t going to ruin me. I made a vow that I wouldn’t let it affect me. I wouldn’t be weak. I wouldn’t feel. I would forget; pretend it never happened. And then it wouldn’t hurt me. Then it wouldn’t touch me. I would ignore the wound; pretend it wasn’t there. Then it would go away.
But it didn’t go away. Neither did my memories. I started watching more TV to try to divert my attention. I had trouble concentrating on work, my mind wandering back to that event. To that pain. I had to distract myself, numb myself. I mustn’t think about it ever again. It was too painful. If I thought about it, something bad would happen . . . I had to avoid it at all costs.
I remember a time when I experienced loss. As I walked home that evening, I remember telling myself this isn’t going to ruin me. I made a vow that I wouldn’t let it affect me. I wouldn’t be weak. I wouldn’t feel. I would forget; pretend it never happened. And then it wouldn’t hurt me. Then it wouldn’t touch me. I would ignore the wound; pretend it wasn’t there. Then it would go away.
But it didn’t go away. Neither did my memories. I started watching more TV to try to divert my attention. I had trouble concentrating on work, my mind wandering back to that event. To that pain. I had to distract myself, numb myself. I mustn’t think about it ever again. It was too painful. If I thought about it, something bad would happen . . . I had to avoid it at all costs.
None of us want to suffer. But none of us can truly avoid
it.
We all have reason to grieve at some point in our life: loss,
mistreatment, rejection. In the end it affects us all. But how we approach it
influences how it forms us. As I see it, there are two basic options: we can ignore
it or we can grieve it. And the path we choose determines how we come out on
the other end.
On the surface, ignoring it sounds like the safer option.
Just ignore it, don’t let it affect you. But it doesn’t work that way. When we
ignore it, it continues to grow inside us. We waste away from the inside out.
It affects the way we approach life; we shut down parts of our
selves. We shut down part of our mind. We shut down part of our heart. We
become less than a whole person. Our relationships become shallow and stilted.
There are parts of us that are shut away, irretrievable, unreachable to the
closest people in our lives. We find ways to distract ourselves: TV, hobbies, work,
porn, busyness. They may seem harmless enough. But they begin to own us. We
live with eyes half open. We live with our heart half closed.
But we choose to ignore it because we feel overwhelmed and
powerless. We want some sort of relief, any relief to get us through the days
and nights. We keep ourselves busy to avoid our tortured thoughts. We numb
ourselves to avoid the unbearable pain.
When we notice the pain less, we think we are out of the
woods. We have survived the grief unscathed. But we have merely pushed it below
the surface. And it will pop up again: in anger, in addictions, in unhealthy
relationships. We have not saved ourselves pain; we have merely stretched it
out, separated it from its source, and allowed it to dictate who we become. The
irony is that in trying to escape the pain, we have given it the keys to our
heart and allowed it to blindly drive us—as we simply pretend it isn’t there.
So what about the second option? The scarier option: facing
our pain head on. Admitting the hurt. Acknowledging the loss. Processing the
damage. Mourning what once was and will never be again.
This is the way of healing. We can choose to face it
squarely. To meet it head on. To enter it honestly with our eyes wide open. It
is a long and painful journey, but it can be a journey of growth not
destruction.
But this requires facing reality for what it is. We cannot
ignore it and hope that it goes away. A wound will not heal with lack of care;
a bone will not mend without being set. We cannot heal by denying that
something has been broken. We are made to share our stories, to experience our
pain, to feel deeply, to mourn fully.
We must allow ourselves to grieve. This is not something
that happens overnight; it takes time and community. It is not easy. It takes
sharing our hurt, expressing our pain, acknowledging the damage done. Grieving
does not make us weak; it makes us courageous. It is facing life as it is, not
as you wish it were. There is hope in authentic suffering, but only false-hope
in denial and distraction. Loss does not have to ruin us. In fact, if we face
it honestly, it can grow us.
