The Monster Within

Today I started my day reading an article about a man who succumbed to grief and took his own life. Sadly, the act of suicide is not uncommon, so that statement will not surprise many. The more intricate details of this man’s life make his story stand out.

This dad lost his daughter 7 years ago in the Sandy Hook slaying. This dad had a loving family, a wife and two small children he left behind. This dad started a foundation to help people. This man was a scientist researching “brain health” to save lives, just like his own. This dad died of a broken heart.

As I read the article, I thought of all the people around me that are suffering, maybe not from grief, but suffering in other ways. I thought about the immense grief I battle daily because it never goes away. If I told you there are days I wished for death, would that surprise you? If I told you I believed that people CAN actually die of a broken heart would you be skeptical? If I told you that taking my own life is NOT an option, would you trust me? If I told you I cry every time I read this aloud, would you believe it was true?

I so badly want to delete the above paragraph, but what good would that do. We live in a world where we hide true feelings out of fear of being judged harshly or inaccurately. The fact is you cannot run from the truth or bury it, so here is my secret truth. There are days I wish my broken heart would just give in and stop. There are moments I wish the ground would open up and swallow me.

Thankfully, I am able to remember that there are important moments yet to be lived. The thing I fear the most is, what happens when the darkness gets too heavy? How do you keep letting the light in when your brain becomes accustomed to the darkness?

As I read the article, my mind couldn’t help but wonder how a man who knew intense grief could take his own life and leave his wife and children to suffer even more without him? I couldn’t imagine putting that sort of pain on my husband and daughter. I immediately tucked those thoughts away, because 7 years of grief must be terribly heavy and I am in no place to judge.

This led me to recall possibly the dumbest question I have ever asked. I was sitting with a friend who was ahead of me on this “grief road” and I asked her, “Does it get any easier?” The look on her face said it all. She wanted to lie to me and tell me yes, but couldn’t, because that would be cruel. I am not sure what I was hoping for, maybe it was a naive wonder that some way, somehow the pain would lessen. Here it is 18 months later and I can say for a fact, it does not get easier, not even close.

What does get easier is the ability to mask the pain. Practice allows you the ability to push through the crushing moments. Instead of collapsing on the spot, you are able to file the pain away temporarily and not disrupt life happening around you. Imagine calmly letting a wave hit you and slowly subside, all the while knowing a bigger one will come, and then a bigger one. Over time, you learn how to stand your ground against grief, until you can get to a private place where no one will try to fix you or ease your sorrows.

Grief is a monster, it won’t be banished or quarantined and it cannot be cured or healed. You may think you have it tamed until it turns on you. The monster has many hands, guilt, anger, sadness, numbness, anxiety, etc. These hands are like tentacles constantly reaching, grasping and covering. I have a monster within that tries to take my light. Today I pushed fear aside to share my story, not to be judged or to cause panic and mayhem, but to hopefully let someone suffering know they are not ALONE!

This article hit me hard today. It was as if someone put a blanket over hope and snuffed it out. The words “succumbed to the grief that he could not escape” are words you never want to hear when you are grieving. This is a battle my friends, a lifelong battle and certainly one worth fighting. My promise is to keep telling the truth, to keep sharing my story, and to keep finding the light even on the darkest of days.