Recently, the revelation of mind-blowing psychological abuse and neglect surfaced. One would think a 56-year-old woman would have figured out the nonsense and dealt with it long, long ago but it seems that the shit pile is infinitely deep. Much like the ocean, I have yet to discover the greatest depths and when I go deeper, I discover truths so magnificent, I almost want to keep it a secret because I don’t think anyone will believe it.
Grieving the loss of myself is deep, wide and at times unknown until the moment it is discovered.
The stages of grief were once identified by Elizabeth Kübler-Ross as 1. Denial 2. Anger 3. Bargaining 4. Depression 5. Acceptance. Seems like I went through all of those within a span of a couple of hours this morning. And yesterday and the day before and the day before that. The most recent observation into the grief cycle manifested this way: The thoughts circled round and round with regard to my son not having a job which I turn on myself. It must be my fault that he doesn’t have a job, I must have done something to deeply hurt him that he has a scar that prevents his self-sufficiency. (He is perfectly capable of working if he chooses.) Well, it surfaced as denial on my part. Denying the fact that I love my son and have done so much for him and with him to help him heal. And then the bargaining began. Self-destructive thoughts like, “the only way to rid my son of my misinterpreted actions is to cease to exist.” My bargain was to end my life so that he may have a life. Depressed and feeling worthless. And then the anger swelled into a wave that turned into me stomping around the house exclaiming, “It doesn’t make a fucking bit of difference what I do so I’m not going to do anything at all! I’m not going to empty the dishwasher or go for a bike ride or a walk or exercise or go to work tomorrow or be nice to anyone or anything. I’m done!” I stomped down the stairs and moved onto the final stage of grief … acceptance. I accept the fact that perhaps I could do something small . . . gather the clean laundry and bring it upstairs.
The acceptance set in . . . and this is the important stage that has never happened before. I accept and allow healing into my life.
In the laundry room, I gathered the clean articles of clothing and towels. Cleaned the lint screen. Tossed the green fuzzy lint gathered from the blanket I had dried into the trash. Noticed the trash was full but also noticed it was extremely light when I carried it upstairs with the basket. With each step my head cleared. I became a bit more like myself again. I became Wendy Who Walks With Wildflowers.
Opened the door, threw out the trash and peacefully observed the dog next door who did not bark at me for once, he simply looked at me. A part of me wanted to say, “But why aren’t you barking at me like a savage beast like you usually do? I was ready to call 911 and videotape you and your violence.” But it didn’t happen. All was peaceful.
This cycle of grief happens regularly for me. I’ll be on this high that life is good, that I can be a contributing member of society. That I can be the essence of peaceful joy and prosperity. But then this other voice enters, like an epigenetic virus attached to my DNA. “Nope, you are a worthless piece of shit. How dare you think that you are better than anyone else. You are nothing and everything bad that is happening is your fault. You should never have been born. It is your fault that we are in this situation. Everything has been done for you and now you are ungrateful and think that you can do anything you want.”
As if the only way to be is to suffer. The particles of suffering attached to my DNA is loosening it’s grip with each and every eye-opening revelation.
The difference between now and the five and a half decades of grief cycles is that I’ve now recognized it for what it is. It’s simply a particle. A speck. A flea. All of which can be flicked off. Is the antidote for the invasive particle invasion to pull the weeds and then plant seeds for the healthy variation? And when the healthy is planted, water it, fertilize it and expose it to sunlight?
If our DNA remembers generations of information. then my quest is to reveal misinterpretations and give them back to the source. For instance, on my trip to Boston a couple of weeks ago, I rode the train to Salem where some of my ancestors had lived. I toured a place called the Witch House and another museum. There, I learned that children were seen as born with the original sin and were evil until they were cleansed. Completely ridiculous! Utterly mad! All children are of pure light and love. At what point did my ancestors believe otherwise? Fear? Religious teachings? What? WTF?
It doesn’t matter. I recognize it as ridiculous and a complete misinterpretation. The truth is, that all children are pure light and love. And so it is. I cleanse my DNA of all epigenetic misinterpretations of the truth now and forever. The layers and layers are now gone.
I’ve changed my mind with regard to the planting of healthy information, watering it and fertilizing it. Because fertilizer itself can be tainted. My DNA is lighter and shines brighter without anything planted. The essence of nothingness.
I have since moved through this issue even further. Listened to the book, “Will I Ever Be Good Enough.” Yes, I AM good enough. Although, to be “good” is a judgement. I would rather simply be. And not be judged as good or bad. Just accepted as is.
To be able to speak of the past in a way that is neutral becomes important in day to day life. Rather than the manic depressive bipolar existence which seems sometimes the only way to survive, I reach a state of equilibrium. All this without medication and without any external source. It is a civilized manner of reciprocity.