grief-1, The funeral

I planned every detail of the funeral all the way down to the headstone. I could make one out of styrofoam like people use as yard decorations at Halloween. I knew what words I wanted said, what scriptures I wanted read and what songs I wanted sung. Years of pent up emotion meant it was going to be difficult to keep the ceremony under an hour. I wondered how the other attendees would feel about that.

My mother’s funeral was going to be unique. I decided not to include any funny stories from childhood. It wouldn’t be possible to recount the times my mother had supported me. How she had always been my best friend or the way she showed up just when I needed her most. I wanted to tell about the time she taught me her favorite recipe and showed me how to sew. I wanted to talk about laughing together and about all the encouragement she had given me over the years. I wanted to share how happy she had made my childhood. 

My mother...the person I knew so well. Every feature, every line on her face, the sound of her voice, the way her hands looked in repose. They were beautiful hands. Long fingers, worn rough from years of gardening and raising roses. This woman I longed to know above all others; to be loved by more than anyone else. I had finally come to the end.

But her funeral wasn’t going to be filled with happy memories, And I was not going to be able to recount her support because none of those things had ever happened. I wondered if a funeral would be the appropriate place to tell about the time she slit her wrists and the neighbors found her floating in the pond behind the house? I didn’t suppose any of my friends  wanted to hear the details of the sexual abuse she perpetrated on me as a young child or the deep shame she made sure to infuse upon every fiber of my being. I guess no one would be interested in hearing about the confusion her mental illness caused in my own mind or the endless years of psychological torture and blame she sowed in the fertile soil of me. It had taken root and blossomed into decade after decade of pain. The loss was indescribable; of things that might have been, of trying to save her and failing again and again and again, of not being able to save myself.

And in all of it, I was horribly, unutterably alone. My father had abandoned my sibling and I to my mother’s madness long ago and not one single family friend or relative lifted one finger to help. Not one.

I had plans to meet with my counselor to talk about my mother’s funeral service. “These are the things I want done.” I handed him a piece of paper. “I just need to put some kind of ending to all of this.”

“I don’t think this whole thing is a good idea,” he replied rubbing his beard in thought. 

“Why not? I want to let this go. I want this to stop. I want a life.”

“But your mother isn’t really dead and planning a funeral isn’t going to make her dead. It’s never a good idea to pretend something is true when it isn’t.”

What are you talking about? I thought. No, my mother isn’t really dead, but I’ve got to do something to set a boundary for myself. I’ve got to find a way to let her go. I’ve been pretending my entire life and this supposed funeral is not pretending. Our church, our community, our family, nobody knows what’s been going on. For years I’ve plastered on a smile while inside, all I really wanted to do was die. For the first time in my life, this funeral is a way for me to tell the truth. I need to grieve what might have been, what should have been and what really was. What can possibly be wrong with that? 

Instead of saying all of that, I stared at the ground and shrugged. “I guess you’re right,” I said. What was the use? He was just like everybody else. He didn’t get it and nothing I could say would make him get it. 

That was over thirty years ago. My mother finally did die this past year. She lived like a roaring lion. She died with a whimper; institutionalized and overcome with dementia. I didn’t go to that funeral, either. Extended relatives had judged me deficient. Though there were less than a handful gathered, as her daughter, I wasn’t welcomed. An aunt, the sister of my father, read a glowing eulogy. The same aunt who stood by and watched the abuse and never said a word. 

My grief was not honored. My suffering was not acknowledged. I was less than. I was “the other.” 

Amazing isn’t it? That even in the end after being institutionalized for so long completely out of her mind, my mother managed to make sure everyone knew I was the problem—that in the end, I would know just how much she hated me.

This is what survivors of childhood trauma face. This is what complicated grief looks like. 

I want to take a pause right here. Take a deep breath with me. Do you see the layer upon layer of hurts, harms, psychological damage, suffering and torment? Each one of those confused thoughts the bedrock of grief. The overwhelming nature and size of the loss trauma victims must grieve is more than deprivation, more than heart break. It feels unsurvivable.

The truth about a parent, child, partner or family system—indeed sometimes everyone closest to us makes it easier to push grief to the bottom of the pile. To say “I’m depressed,” instead of “I’m grieving.” But grief waits and the only way toward healing is to cut a path straight through its middle.

This series on grief will cover such topics as complicated grief, society’s reaction to survivor’s grief, the tasks of grief, as well as others. You deserve for your grief to be honored. You deserve for grief to be acknowledged. And most of all, you deserve love and respect for all you have been through. May you find the blessings that should have been yours. Defy trauma, embrace, joy.