REDUNDANCY

I suppose there are only so many times that I can write about how much I miss Christina and how the grief has effected me before it becomes truly redundant; yet, here I am with a strong sense of hypertypergraphia - a need for the catharsis that comes from putting it into words.

Last week, it would've been her 24th birthday; this week will mark the 8th month since she's been gone. We - all but one of her 5 siblings, most of her nieces and nephews, her two children, her partner, one of her brothers-in-law, two of her sisters-in-law, me and Jim - went to her grave. Her kids wanted to sing Happy Birthday to her...bring her birthday cake. So we gathered there and did that. We released 24 red and black balloons (her favorite colors). I worried that we are giving her kids a mixed message about death: If we leave things on her grave (cupcakes, cans of pop, candy, cigarettes, flowers, stuffed animals), do they think she is somehow still around, able to get what we leave for her?? Yet, I sense it is cathartic for them to participate in this ritual, just as it is for us.

Personally, I would've preferred an afternoon of solitude at her grave. Had I been afforded that option, I would have cried and yelled and screamed. I still carry the biggest "WHY??" imaginable, for which there will never be an answer that satisfies. There will never be a response that triggers an, "OH! Yes, of course. Okay, NOW I understand." And I've tried; I've tried to justify it. I remember her saying that her kids would be better off without her - and I see that at some level, she was right: her bipolar mood swings were so intense and so unfair to Damien and Ada - and in truth, there is more peace and stability without her. That hurts. We've also come to the mutual agreement that her actions that morning were firmly rooted in impulse; she didn't REALLY plan to hang herself. That hurts too, knowing had she just taken a deep breath, practiced some cognitive restructuring, thought stopping, and shifted her attention elsewhere, she'd likely still be here.

I struggle with disbelief and shattered faith. All that spiritual stuff that I embraced about the seasons and cycles of Life seem empty and meaningless; just a different brand of magical thinking. Death is the end; without proof of an afterlife, nothingness is all I have. And still I find myself in a state of disbelief, as if all these images of her death are remnants of a nightmare; surely if I walk back into her room right now I will find her sitting at her computer. But no. I must always correct myself; she's really, really, dead. She's not coming back, ever. Apparently, my final act as her mother - going to the funeral parlor to fix her hair and makeup - was not enough to confirm the brutal facts. Handling her embalmed body was not enough to shake the doubt. Why? Because I was not fully present for any of it. I functioned on automatic pilot, never taking a moment to take a breath and SEE what I was doing. I simply DID it. I felt the heavy stiffness of her overly-embalmed body; I saw my Christina under the rigid expression of death; but I didn't accept it, as blatant as it was.

I've also come to realize that my sense of grief is primarily on behalf of her children. As her mom and especially as a mental health counselor, I realize the years of bipolar depression took its toll and that she could not have been expected to carry that psychological load forever; I find relief in knowing she found an end to her chronic pain. But for her kids, I cry. My tears are THEIR tears. But also my grandmother's tears; she too lost a mother when she was only a child (a car accident, according to the family story, but recent generations have suspected possible suicide). My grandmother mourned the loss of her mother until her own passing. My tears are also a return of the tears I cried when my own mother came within minutes of dying when her appendix ruptured. I was not even 9 years old, but I overheard how close she came to dying - and I was profoundly traumatized by the experience and by the realization of the fragility of life. Here one moment, gone the next. A lot for a child to ponder. And, my tears are also for my paternal grandmother who lost a son. His death was brutal and preventable; it was the result of repeated incestuous rape and subsequent colon perforation and hemorrhage. And since Christina died, my tears are also for every sad story I hear: suicides as a direct outcome of bullying; missing children; murdered children. My former optimism is fading.

And then the paradox: Even while I struggle with these issues daily, internally, and often subconsciously, I am functioning. I have redecorated, turning this house into more of a home. What was a living room unused is now a freshly painted and redecorated office complete with new bookshelves and desk. What was formerly just the-room-with-the-pool-table has become the freshly painted living room with new laminate flooring, a flat screen tv and console soon to be delivered, and new sofa/sectional soon to be purchased. And it fills me with joy to successfully complete a creative project like these. And then there's school. Another semester begins in just a few days and I am eager: textbooks are purchased, new folders have been labeled, and I found a great deal on a lambskin leather briefcase that I'm absolutely smitten with! In spite of the tears and often along side the grief, Life moves forward. I find moments of happiness, joy, satisfaction, and love. Perhaps they are not QUITE as grand as they once were; perhaps they are more fleeting or are tempered by the underlying pain...but they're there.

So I unload the pain with my words and sigh with the relief that comes with purging, with telling the story, with redundancy, and wish it could've been that easy for Christina to find HER relief.