Good Grief 150

Shame
I know it can be a big factor.
The yawning, cankerous chasms that pit and scar.
I understand what it does.
I know it's unhelpful.
I know acceptance is key.
But, boy, it's a struggle.

I like to turn to Tara Brach for such matters, and read this quote of Rilke's,

'It’s here in all the pieces of my shame
That now I find myself again.
I yearn to belong to something, to be contained
In an all-embracing mind that sees me. . . .'

She goes on to talk of all the things that I struggle to read because of the tears that are coursing, down me, through me, through my whole being and existence.

It occurs throughout my encounters in the world. It filters into the smallest, seemingly most innocent exchanges and then, of course, is blindingly obvious when it comes to some of the fundamental stuff about being human, being adult, being female...and just being (and whatever any of those things mean to us, individually, collectively, culturally). I know it makes for hard work. I know I should just go out for a bloody walk, or just do the garden....

But, shame seeps back. It's like flooding, it will come in wherever it can, if not through the front door, it will go round the back. If you put the flood defences in places it will accumulate until the pressure builds and it pours over the top. Failing all of that, it will just permeate through the floorboards, silently and unstoppable. Even when you know, you know, it doesn't make sense.

I can do quite well at times. But after a sleepless night the defences can be shaky. It's a gloriously sunny day outside and I will get on with it.

For me, I know that the losses trigger the other stuff.
The little stuff is about the ridiculous things that hot wire into familiar themes. When I try to understand something and don't get it, I quickly feel stupid. Thought-feeling fusion kicks in and I AM stupid. And it doesn't stop there. I can kind of manage that one and have a go at a bit of exposure to break old habits.
One of the biggest though, that has always been there, but which has definitely hit back badly since my husband died, and with lifestage, is not having had children. It was my friend's son's 14th birthday last week. I babysat his sister when his mum went to antenatal classes, I paced up and down with him when he was very colicky, I read stories. I've watched him at every unfolding gorgeous stage. I've  watched his mum become a wonderful mother of four and how she relates to each of them, and they with her.

I'm always cautious of talking about this. People can be quick to categorise it as broody, jealous, comparative, rose-tinted, etc, etc, the variations are infinite. It is astonishing how much you hear, 'as a mother, as a father, as a parent', the rest of us are quickly 'othered' and couldn't possibly get it.

For me, it is a profound sense of loss. I have no doubts that I would have struggled, that I might have been a disasterous mother, that there might have been any of the great challenges, and the great joys, on the way. But it will never happen and I will never get to find out. I can honestly say that when I see my friend's son and how tall, kind and beautiful he is, I feel wonder, love, bonded through the life association. Yet I struggle to go and see them, not through any regrets or jealousies, as far as I know, but through the sense of lost connection with the world and the feeling of pain. There is great symbolism in the closure of the main road that takes me there.

For me, it is a feeling of not only great loss and sadness, but also of great shame.