Let me start by saying I've lost another person whom I love. In my thirty plus years, I've lost great grandparents, grandparents, uncles, aunts, cousins, friends, friends who were like grandparents and an unborn child. I have finally come to the conclusion that no two people grieve the same way. I have had this realization while reflecting on my own varied displays and ways of dealing with grief. Each time I lose a loved one my behaviors are different or the ordering of my series of behaviors is different.
I always cry at some point. When I learn of the death; the months leading to the death; when I experienced the miscarriage; what would be their birthday if they weren't in Heaven; when I'm feeling like no one understands me and miss the way they always got me, it's inevitable for me the tears always come.
At first, I thought this time my lack of tears at the funeral was because of my guilt for not being there to help care and nurture my loved one, but I was wrong. I had witnessed others physical and mental decline as they became ready to leave this world and I could but do it this time. Yes, you may call me selfish, but I'm the one that must decide what my mental health status will be. I decided that I would not force myself to see another loved one slipping away while it plunged me into a depression that I would hide from my family and friends. Hiding the depression just causes me to lash out at the slightest transgressions because I am emotionally distraught and no one realizes. Even the man I share my life with and my children do not know because I choose not to tell them. They see me cry when most do not, but I do not tell them the depth of my despair. Only a glimpse into the cause of my anguish that this time will be much shorter. In the past, I offered care; I sat at bedsides; I laughed with the one suffering to ease their pain. And it hurt me immensely to see their pain and be unable to make them better for months and even years during the decline. So, not this time. I chose me and my emotional well being over the one who had cared for me and helped make me who I am. I regret not being there, but I know myself and my immediate family are much happier because I kept at a distance.
Then I tried to blame it on the way I was raised. "Be strong. Don't cry. Be brave enough to take everything on by yourself." I cried as a little girl. I cried as a teen. I cry as an adult. In the last five years, I've probably quadrupled the number of people that have seen or heard me cry. I'd guess that other than family members fewer than fifteen people have witnessed my tears (Interestingly, I don't count people that may have seen me cry at other funerals. These are groups of mourners and I doubt they notice my tears.). The first time I recall my dad crying was when I experienced what I call sexual violation through voyeurism in a public restroom. Though I was physically unharmed and just made to show my body it rocked my dad to his core. It changed me too, in ways that I wouldn't realize until I had children of my own. Maybe I'll visit that another day. My mother cried at funerals and when she felt threatened. Surely, they were the cause of my lack of tears, but I looked over at my older brother and saw his tears. Then felt his shoulders heave up and down with his sobs as I rubbed his back in an attempt to comfort him. I realized he grew up in the same home with the same emotional displays from our parents and that it must be something wrong with me.
I looked around the room and noticed some of my cousins weren't crying. Ones that spent countless hours on the lap of our loved one many more than I had. Ones that spent their nights at sleepovers through out the years with them. Then and only then did I realize that there was nothing wrong with me, nor with them. I don't know if they spent every moment of solitude of the days after the death and before the final send off in tears as I had (my poor car and bathroom at home would have horrible soundtracks of my sobs if they had recording devices and replayed them). And if they didn't, I realized that was okay too.
I guess there is no real point to this entry other than my own self examination and journey, but it is now memorialized on the internet for others to find. Who knows, may be it will help someone heal or realize they're not the only one with dry cheeks at a funeral.
