Feelings and Burdens and Beauty A Year Later

It has almost been a year.

A year of feeling. A year of making jokes about it. A year of relating to people a little more because now I too know that loss.

It has almost been a year…

I am reminded by the smell of the baked pear and apple Glade candle that I bought. It’s sweet smell brings me back to a room lit only by candlelight and white christmas lights. A room with flowers from housemates and a piece of paper that said “We love you, Rads” from work. I’m brought back to a hopeless and overwhelmed feeling the waiting for “it” to happen gave me as I laid in my bed with used tissues under my pillows and on the floor.  They weren’t all from crying. I was sick and grateful because I could blame tear filled eyes on sneezing if I really wanted to.

I am reminded by the signs for the Volusia County Fair. I went with my sister and cousins, and friends from Orlando came to join. I rode the zipper. Something I regretted before I even got on and saw them poor a bucket of water into one of the cages to “clean” the puke off. We went to Chilli’s after because it’s just about the only place to go in Deland other than IHOP at that time.

And now, I am brought back to that booth in the company of Liz, Lori, Aaron and Scott. And I am brought back to the text message.

The one that read:
“He passed… 11:06.”

I expected to cry right away. The way you think you would breakdown when you hear your father is dead. I had broken down so many times already though. I had four years to prepare for that news. And so when I went outside with Liz, I didn’t cry. We sat on a bench and it became a little more real. But I didn’t cry until I got in my car the next day to leave my house and go back to Orlando.

In that way, I guess I was lucky. Because it all spanned four years I got to spread out my grief. But in that way, I felt I was a burden to so many people. To friends, pastors, leaders, etc who had to hear about it… again.
And now again.

It has almost been a year and I still find myself questioning. I don’t question his death. I don’t question Korsakoff’s syndrome (maybe a little bit). Almost a year later, I still ask the question of how am I supposed to feel? I feel no validity in being sad. I feel no right to dread this week. I feel wrong to have had a hard time holding it together this morning.

Why? Who said it is wrong? Because whoever said it was wrong only knew what was wrong for them, and maybe people like them. I feel this is right. Not because anyone told me it is, but because it is simply how I feel.

In that way, I still feel like a burden. Sure, Friday marks one year since he died. But I was crying about this, I was talking about this, I was questioning this two years ago… three years ago… four years ago. And here I am, still trying to convince myself I don’t need a manual–I don’t need to be told that I’m allowed to feel the way I do, but all I want is someone to tell me I can feel this way. But again I tell myself, you don’t need a manual on how people deal with this stuff. There would have to be millions of manuals for the millions of people and our millions of problems. I need to feel what I feel and not what someone tells me to feel.

That all may sound vague, I suppose.

Buscaglia probably said it better. Maybe you’ll read it and say, “he’s telling you how to feel, how to live.” But he’s encouraging you to follow your own path, or at least that’s what I get from him. One of my favorites:

“We have forgotten what it is to laugh and to feel good laughing. We are taught that a young sophisticated lady does not laugh boisterously–she titters. Who said? Emily Post? She’s sick! Why should we listen to somebody else tell us how to live our existence? Yet every day we see in the papers “Dear Miss Post, My daughter is being married in February. What kind of flowers should she carry?” If your daughter wants to carry radishes, let her carry them. “Dear Interior Decorator, I have puce curtains in my living room. What color should my rug be?” I can just see this little cat sitting his office saying, “Heh, heh, heh.” And he replies, “Purple.” So you run out and buy thousands of dollars worth of purple rugs with puce curtains, and you’re stuck with them, and you deserve it!

We don’t trust our own feelings any more. Men don’t cry. Who said? If you feel like crying, you cry. I cry all the time. I cry when I’m happy, I cry when I’m sad, I cry when a student says something beautiful, I cry when I read poetry.

If you feel something, let people know that you feel it. Don’t you get tired of these stoic faces that don’t show anything? If you feel like laughing, laugh. If you like what somebody says, go up and give them a hug. If it is right, it will be right.”

This week, I want to trust my feelings. I want to trust that it’s okay to be a little sad a year later.

It’s okay to be nostalgic. To look further and further back and miss what was. But it’s oh so good to remember what is, to remember where I am, to remember where it’s all brought me.

In that way, I want to cry… because it’s beautiful.