Dear Grandma,
Last night, I had a dream about your ritual on my birthday. By ritual, I mean, you calling to sing "Happy Birthday" and then passing the phone on to Grandpa to send his brief but heartfelt sentiments. Then, in his fashion, he would pass the phone over to you and we would chat. The length of the conversation varied, but you would always call.
If you did not call, then you would send a birthday card. When Grandpa was living, he'd always tuck something in the card.
I woke up with your voice lingering, and I couldn't sit with Jazz and be one hundred percent present. I longed to be on the other side of the line. Not to where it would generate worry, but I wanted to re-experience the joy and happiness I felt to be cherished, appreciated, and poured into.
The realization that I would (more than likely) not experience such a high level of appreciation gave me heaviness in my heart. I was reminded of the punctures in my heart.
No matter how many memories kept it beating, the reality of your and Grandpa's absences would disrupt the rhythm and/or just make it stop.
I hesitated in expressing this. It is autopilot for me to carry the heavier emotions. I've learned it's unhealthy for me to continuously carry emotional weight, but it's become more complicated than being vulnerable and transparent. Many questions fire off in my brain in milliseconds:
- Who should I express this to?
- Is this person in a space to be receptive?
- Will this person discount what I'm saying?
- Will this person take offense?
- Will this person try to go tit for tat on who has the greatest amount of trauma happening?
- Will I receive the generic response of "it's going to be okay"?
- Or the standard, "Don't cry", "Come on, you're better than this", and "You're strong; no need for all that crying"?
Even typing this, it's maddening to go through this cycle of questioning before feeling safe enough to speak.
After deciding that I wanted to express these thoughts, they tumbled out, along with the tears, which had already spilled during my mental gymnastics.
Verbally expressing my emotions never seems as streamlined as when I write them out. There are digressions, and expansions on the digressions, but I try to get back to the core.
The multiple takeaways are:
I miss you.
I miss Grandpa.
It hurts that Mom hasn't stepped up to be the mom she said she wanted to be for me (for whatever reason). Yes, this is magical thinking.
(Sigh ... Chalk it up to remnants of the little girl who optimistically believed it's unnatural for a mother not to want the best bond with her daughter.)
At times, being of service isn't enough.
I pour into others that do not pour into me with the same exuberance. Those people who solely took from me are no longer in my circle ... most of them, you warned me about.
The ones who remain ... who truly care about me ... it's difficult for me to express this.
What can I say? When you are used to not being seen or heard, it feels like magical thinking to expect a different outcome.
There are moments when I could do with a few more hugs and words of affirmation, even though they are on the lower end of my five love languages.
To know whom to get the aforementioned from, along with not feeling awkward about being the recipient of these things, is a struggle for me.
I want life spoken into me, especially those rare moments when life feels harder than death.
The latter is one of those days.
I visualize things I may want to do or have, but your loss makes these things hazy. Your birthday melody and your voice made the start of the day brighter and the end of the day incomplete.
How can brightness still exist in a world where you are gone? Where Grandpa is gone?
I'm still seeking that brightness.
I'm currently poured out.
Before, I would somehow turn air into liquid and continue to pour.
Now, I have to simply say, "I don't have it."
Every moment, day, and hour feels too long to take things as they come. It all comes too fast, and I'm swimming against the tide of my anguish.
Today ... I'm just not okay.
I love you.
💓
