Hold Up!

I have found positives about this past holiday season.  Me, positives!  I know, it's shocking.  Here's how I did it:


I spent a lot of my awake time during the holiday season painting and art journaling.  In fact, I filled up almost an entire ginormous watercolor Moleskine in just a couple of weeks.  I've found that when I just can't subject the blog to yet another account of my whining and suicidal ideation, my journal is always available for whatever I have going on- whining, burning jealousy, homicidal impulses.  I am accepted, just as I am. 


Art journaling has been an incredibly therapeutic experience.  I've been a lover of words since I learned how to read, and would never have believed there are some things that words can't say.  Losing my daughter violently and unexpectedly taught me differently.  In doodling and pushing paint around paper, I have slowly developed my own visual language.  Colors are reflective of mood.  Symbols slowly emerged- like my three messy enmeshed circles to represent Cory, Jacob, and I, and the way I hand carved stamps of hearts Cory had drawn, and can to this day bring her hand to my artwork in such a simple, but meaningful way.  I've learned to do photo transfers, which means I can incorporate beautiful, ethereal images of her image and paintings within my pages and collages.  Next up, I'm learning to make hand cut stencils from photographs, which means I'll have yet another way to replace the grisly images of Cory on the road with happier, healthier days when she was smiling and whole- something my brain desperately needs.


But back to winter break, which seemed nothing more than an exercise in misery and torture.  I searched back through my journal pages, sifting through all the hurt and misgivings, sweeping away the emotional debris, shaking vigorously through my experiences, and found not one, but two good things- perhaps even growth.


During an appointment with Dr. Z, a few days before Christmas, I gifted him with one of Cory's original paintings.  It may sound small, since her body of work is easily over 50 pieces, but keep in mind, I have not been able to part with a single one.  The week before the appointment, I changed my mind a dozen times.  One second, I was certain it was what Cory would want.  The next, I was loathe to give this moment- since I remembered the exact day she'd painting it, the discussion we'd had to inspire the painting and our conversation when it was finished- away, to anyone.  I wanted to hoard my memories of her, because I already knew there were never enough.  Never.  Back and forth, I ping-ponged, until tears burning, I pulled it off the wall of my studio.  That was the hard part.


 Once in Dr. Z's office, looking into his kind eyes and gentle, smiling demeanor, I knew Cory had subconsciously painted this particular piece for her doctor, her friend, her confidante during her personal tour of hell.  This painting had belonged to him the entire time.  This man had given her consistent kindness, consistent care, even driving meds by the house one Friday night when Cory's symptoms were overtaking her, unable to know she might be suffering through the weekend until Monday.  Who does that these days? 


As I handed it to him, I told him I knew Cory would've wanted him to have it, that she loved him very much.  He looked down at it, beaming, and noted quietly, "The feeling was entirely mutual.  She was a fighter, our girl, so brave in the face of terrible things other people could scarcely imagine.  I will treasure it."


And I knew he would, which made it okay to share something so precious.  It made it more than okay.  I left the appointment feeling Cory was alive in someone else's home or workplace.  That she would be talked about when someone asked about her painting.  Her name would be said out loud.  Her story would be told.  Isn't that what we all want?  To matter, and be heard?


A couple of days later, the day before Christmas Eve, I drove to my parents' with gifts for them.  In perhaps the last couple of visits, I had been able to visit with them in their living room, on the couch Cory and I had plopped on beside my mom so many times to laugh and catch up, as Jake played on the floor near my dad, who sat in his favorite armchair.  It was a scene so fresh in my mind, I'd been unable to enter this room and sit in my usual spot for over a year.  All visits to my parents' home were taken at the snack bar in the kitchen, the best I could manage at the time.


Last Christmas, I sent gifts with Tim and Jake.  But this year, I found I wanted to see the looks on my parents' faces when they opened the gifts I'd chosen.  I got my mom a Pandora bead of a gondola to symbolize our trip to Italy together, riding in a gondola around magical Venice.  For my dad, I picked up books I though he'd like, because we are alike in that a book we haven't read, or one we'd like to read again, can be one of the best gifts we can receive.


It was a small holiday gathering- just three souls, four if you count Cory looking on, which I'm certain she was- but it was just that:  a holiday gathering, and one I came to willingly, no prodding or guilting required.


As I realized this had been a step in my grief process, I also realized I'd had no idea it was at the time.   It was just something I wanted to do.  A few people had urged me to come to the big family gift exchange and holiday dinner, saying it would be the next step for me in healing and moving forward.  What I've also realized is that no one can choose your steps for you, or their size.  Most of the time you are unaware of them, yourself, just simply taking them instinctively.  It is only through careful reflection that you are able to identify them at all, and this is where journaling is such a valuable tool.  As I've said before, it is sometimes hard to accept other people's observations of your progress.  But if it's there for you in the page in plain black and white, or lovely swirls of paint made by your own hand- who are you to argue?


Your steps forward or backward are all your own.  No one who has not had your loss can determine what they should be or when they should happen.  People can have the best intentions of how they would behave in such a traumatic experience, but they are only ponderings, and mostly over rated on the person's idea of their capacity for pain.  Trust me, you have no idea what you would do or how you would act until it actually happens to you.  You just do the best you can.  We are only human.