Grief is not a wave… it’s a Ninja.

“A mother never gets over losing her child. It doesn’t matter how long it’s been, how old her child was when they died, or the reason they were taken away, grief does not ever expire. Never tell a mother who’s child died to move on, to get over it, or ‘be happy’ that their child is in Heaven now. You are ‘sick’ of hearing about it? She has to live with it every single day.” ~Unknown

I have reached a stage in my grief I cannot explain, it is some weird place between acceptance and anger that flares unexpectedly in the most random of situations. More than that, I have also reached a place where I know my grief is no longer manageable on my own. For those who don’t know me well, this is a huge admission.

I cannot do it alone.

For those who do know me, understand the place I have to come from in order state that to the world, not to mention myself. Denial is a powerful thing.

Here’s the thing, I know that I am grieving, I know that I am going to struggle from day to day – I understand that all of this is ‘normal’. Here’s the thing: nothing about grieving for a child is normal. Not everything can be placed in these pretty little packages. It’s sneaky, it’s a damn ninja.

So, because my grief has gotten beyond my control, my doctor has sent me to a therapist. Which, by the way, is a necessary evil, in and of itself. I really don’t care for talking about my feelings, but I went into it with the hopeful heart that maybe someone could really help me navigate this minefield I am in.

I was disappointed…

First of all, you don’t need a flipping degree to take one look at my life and a moment of hearing my history to know that my life is stressful. I wouldn’t be sitting in a therapist’s office if my life was rainbows and butterflies. Meanwhile, I also don’t expect this to be an excuse for any kind of behavior – which is, apparently, a new concept. Because, apparently, me not blaming my parents or my son’s death for all of my problems in life is a foreign concept.

In addition to that... we described how grief felt, I would say it is like a ninja, cutting me down at the knees when I least expect it. She disagreed, she felt it was more like a wave... sometimes catching you from behind, but you could withstand sometimes. I still disagree... it's a damn ninja that waits in the shadows, waiting for you not to be watching your six. This is a fact.... sneaking ninjas.

And then the kicker came… the one that that made me want to facepalm: “Have you considered Group Therapy?” How do you explain, to a complete stranger, that you attending a group therapy situation would not make yours better? The grief of others frustrates me depending on what comes out of their mouths. “I know how you feel because ________” tends not to bother me. However, if the words “My life is so hard…. ______________” comes out, I want to chuck the chair I’m sitting in at the person. When someone talks about how they’re an addict because of their grief or how hard their life has been makes me want to flip desks.

Everyone has been dealt a hand, some are better than others, but there are certain things that make them better or worse… which lead to the big question: “Have you turned to substance abuse?” “I’m surprised you haven’t… as stressful as your life is.” Like me drinking away my feelings will bring my son back…. Or won’t perpetuate the problems I’m having financially… or help my boys know how to grieve… or help me get up for work in the morning… I’m sure chugging from a bottle is the cure-all for everything!

In the end, this was the diagnosis: she can’t help me. I need to find someone who is better suited to my particular brand of crazy, apparently. I walked in hopeful, walked out sad.

I also hit a curb with my car and cried about it in a Walgreens parking lot like a crazy woman.

I’m not a crazy woman, but the 40 lbs I’ve gained and the frustration I feel seems like it’s straight out a strange romantic comedy book…. Next thing you know I’ll be showing up to work in my bath robe and be confused when HR comes to talk to me.

Perhaps that won’t happen… but I often feel as if it is on the verge… right there on the edge. But, perhaps that isn’t all that strange. I find solace in the crochet I’ve recently been taught how to do, in chatting with friends on my way to and from work when I don’t trust my mind, to listening to music to help move the blues along the way, I write when things just can’t stop leaking from my soul.

Here’s the facts: Life is hard. I don’t want to cook. I don’t want to clean my house. Sometimes it feels like I’m just waiting for the other thing to happen…

Here’s more facts: I love my boys. I love my house. I love my dogs. I love my life. It’s hard… but I am not willing to trade anything for another.

I miss my son… but that’s okay. And I need to find a therapist.

Until next time…