Once, my therapist dropped a thought-provoking remark on me: “You know, I’ve noticed the only emotion you are entirely comfortable expressing is anger.” At that time, I was grappling with a tendency to misinterpret everything people said to me. By the time her observation settled in, it felt as though she’d said, “Man, you sure are a bitch.” However, in hindsight, it turns out my therapist had hit the nail on the head with her assessment. Throughout our sessions, she had witnessed my confrontational side. She’d seen me carry bitterness, and she’d even heard me tell outright lies. My outbursts of anger were no secret to her. But, as she pointed out, one thing she had never encountered was me crying. As she probed further to understand why I didn’t allow myself to display tears, I found myself in a mental struggle. Inside my head, I was grappling with anger, thinking, “If this therapist pushes me to cry, I swear on my life I’ll never return for another session. Ever.”
Early Lessons in Suppression:
I can handle anger without any qualms, but when a wave of sadness starts to wash over me, I find myself drowning in it, and it feels like an endless abyss. That’s precisely why I put up a fierce fight against it. I wage war on sadness with all the arsenal I have at my disposal. My mind becomes a magician’s hat, overflowing with tricks. I’ll employ humor, anger, blame, sarcasm—anything it takes to keep sadness at arm’s length. I don’t want it anywhere near me. Period.
I learned the art of suppressing my sadness at a young age. As the daughter of a Church of Christ minister, death and sorrow became all too familiar in my life. When your father has a sermon to deliver at a funeral you attend, whether you know the deceased or not, most of those funerals didn’t faze me much because I was too young to fully grasp the concept of death’s finality. I mean, I understood the idea of heaven, but comprehending that a person’s physical life had come to an end was a different matter. I often sat there, devoid of emotion, while my father recited comforting scriptures to grieving family members. The music played, and people wept, but I remained untouched.
Then, one day, it all changed. I attended a funeral that not only made me choke back tears, forcing me to swallow the lump in my throat, but it also caused my heart to ache. What made it even more bewildering was that I had no personal connection to the deceased person.
A Battle Against Tears:
To safeguard the identities of those involved in this recollection, I’ve opted to use fictitious names. While most of you won’t be familiar with the individuals, some from my hometown may recall the tragic incident I’m about to recount. It was the summer of 1987 when a family friend faced an unimaginable loss. The young couple had only been married for a mere two weeks when tragedy struck. The husband, let’s call him “Dave,” had been a frequent visitor to our home throughout my childhood. A former student of my father’s, Dave, would drop by to engage in conversations with my parents about life and current events. I cherished those moments because I could sit in on the discussions and feel like a grown-up.
During one of Dave’s visits, he shared some incredible news with our family. He had met someone special and was planning to get married soon. My parents were overjoyed for him because Dave was a remarkable person with so much to offer. To our knowledge, he hadn’t dated much in the past, so this announcement was cause for even greater celebration. If Dave had found someone to spend the rest of his life with, well, we couldn’t have been happier.
Time passed, and Dave and his fiancée, let’s call her “Beth,” tied the knot. We didn’t attend the wedding, but Dave had assured us that he’d introduce his new bride to us soon. However, a mere two weeks later, we received a heart-wrenching phone call informing us that Beth had been killed in a car accident. Two weeks. They had been married for just two weeks. Dave had spent his entire life searching for someone to love forever, and he got to keep her for a mere fortnight. At the tender age of nine, this was the most profoundly unfair event I had ever witnessed. My heart ached for Dave profoundly so.
When we arrived at the funeral home, I felt an overwhelming sense of unease. This wasn’t my first experience with funerals; I had attended many already in my short life. But this was different. In my view, this funeral shouldn’t have been happening. Dave and Beth should still have been basking in the glow of their honeymoon, planning their future together. Dave should have been building a life with his wife, not contemplating her final resting place. As we waited in line, surrounded by hundreds of mourners paying their respects, my eyes began to well up with tears. What was this emotion I was feeling? I didn’t like it, primarily because I feared I wouldn’t be able to control it.
We were seated just in time for the music to begin, and this is where funerals always hit me the hardest. Those few moments of listening to the music allow your mind to wander, creating a mental tapestry that intertwines with the life of the departed. I didn’t know Beth, but I could only imagine the life she had briefly shared with Dave. A lump began forming in the base of my throat, far too substantial to swallow, making it difficult to breathe normally. If this was what grief felt like, I wanted no part of it. The hymn “Blessed Assurance” continued to play as I battled fiercely to prevent a tear from slipping down my cheek. I knew that once a single tear fell, I’d lose control. So, I fought to contain it. That was the moment when I learned to resist crying with all my might. I was genuinely afraid that if people saw me crying, they would consider it disrespectful, given that I didn’t even know her personally, yet I was mourning for Dave.
The Disruptive Call:
My ability to hold back tears during funerals would only grow stronger as the year progressed. It was the week of Thanksgiving, and the air was charged with excitement and anticipation as we settled into our new home, a haven we had eagerly watched take shape over the summer. We had lived there for less than two weeks, and the weight of responsibility hung heavily over our shoulders as we prepared to host Thanksgiving for our entire extended family, cousins, and all.
But what made this Thanksgiving especially momentous was the imminent arrival of my maternal grandmother, Granny Usery. She had suffered a debilitating stroke nine years prior and had spent the entirety of her life confined to a nursing home. Despite being partially paralyzed, she was a vibrant and spirited redhead, often the life of the party among the residents. Over the phone, I had eagerly shared every detail about our new house with her, constantly reminding her that on Thanksgiving Day, she’d finally get to see it for herself. The excitement building within me was unprecedented; I had never been so thrilled about a holiday gathering.
However, the course of that day was altered dramatically by a single, heart-wrenching phone call, one that would forever etch itself into my memory. Our home phone rang with a shrill urgency, a dissonant note in the otherwise joyous symphony of the holiday season. Calls at such early hours typically signaled mundane matters, perhaps one of my mother’s colleagues requesting her substitute teaching services. But this call, dear reader, was anything but ordinary.
It was the nursing home where Granny resided, and their words landed like a heavy blow: she was gravely ill and needed immediate transport to the hospital. Despite my tender age of just ten years, a profound sense of foreboding gripped my heart. I knew instinctively that this call bore ill tidings. Yet, determined not to revisit the depths of sorrow I had vowed never to experience again, I resolved to carry on with my day as if nothing was amiss.
My parents, however, dashed to the hospital with a haste that I had never witnessed before. The urgency in their actions was palpable, casting a looming shadow over what should have been a joyous holiday. Overhearing my father’s conversation with the school secretary deepened my unease. He uttered the word “cyanotic” with a gravity that sent shivers down my spine. If I had possessed the power of a search engine at that tender age, I would have delved into the depths of the word’s meaning, trying desperately to grasp the magnitude of what it meant for Granny. The drama of the moment was undeniable, leaving an indelible mark on my young soul.
An Unexpected Announcement:
The day before Thanksgiving meant that our school would be hosting a Thanksgiving program in the gymnasium. The air was filled with excitement as we anticipated the songs and poems that would fill the space. At the program’s conclusion, our principal took the stage to deliver his customary announcements related to the holiday break. However, this time, his words carried a weight that sent a ripple through the assembled crowd. He concluded with these somber words, “And be careful going home. Some of our people who are a part of our school family have already received bad news, and unfortunately, Thanksgiving will not be very happy for them.”
I scanned the crowded gymnasium, my eyes flitting from one face to another, wondering who he was referring to. Whose family had been struck by tragedy on this fateful morning?
As soon as the bell rang, I sprinted toward my parents’ car parked out front. Before I could even open the car door, I bombarded them with questions about Granny’s condition. “How’s Granny?” I asked eagerly. My mother, her gaze fixed straight ahead, delivered the crushing news: Granny Usery had passed away. While I’m sure they tried to explain the circumstances, all I could think about were the vivid images of Granny witnessing my new home for the first time, a moment she would never experience. The principal’s announcement echoed in my head, haunting me. It was our family that had been struck by the devastating news.
In that moment, I retreated inward, my emotions locked away. I stared out of the car window into the cold, gray skies, awaiting my brother’s arrival. When he finally opened the car door and joined us, I didn’t allow my mother the chance to break the news again. Instead, I uttered the words with a stone face, “Granny died.” Then, I returned to my silent vigil outside the window. Thanksgiving, a day of celebration, had suddenly taken on a somber hue. I was certain that every Thanksgiving from that point on would serve as a painful reminder of the terrible turn of events on that day.
Thanksgiving was far from traditional that year. We had a funeral to attend – Granny’s. The sad songs played, but I refused to cry. I sat through the funeral without shedding a tear, determined not to show my emotions. Later, though, the floodgates would open.
Beyond Childhood Excitement:
On Christmas Eve that year, sleep eluded me. It wasn’t the excitement of the holiday, as I had outgrown that by now. It was the glaring absence of someone dear. Granny wouldn’t be with us for Christmas. She wouldn’t witness the joy on her grandkids’ faces as they unwrapped their presents, and she wouldn’t shed tears when it was time to say goodbye. She always hated those moments when we had to part ways.
Four weeks had passed since her passing, and not a single tear had fallen from my eyes. My ten-year-old heart was a pressure cooker of pent-up emotions, and I feared it might explode if I didn’t release them. But would the tears ever stop once they started? I wasn’t so sure.
In the dead of night, I quietly slipped into my brother’s room. It wasn’t the first time I had done this; I often stood silently by his bedside when I wanted to wake him up but was too hesitant to do so directly. This time, though, I surprised him by sitting down on his bed and bursting into tears. I poured out my heart, telling him how much I missed Granny and how I dreaded the approaching Christmas without her. I confessed my dislike for crying but acknowledged that it was something I had to do. My brother provided comfort and solace until exhaustion finally led me back to my own room, where I drifted into sleep.
Grief, I learned, was a necessary part of healing. As painful as it could be, not allowing myself to grieve would have been even more detrimental to my mind and soul.
Accepting the Inevitable:
As I matured, my ability to hold back tears at funerals remained intact, though the reasons behind it evolved. Sometimes, I resisted the welling emotions to maintain control over myself. It was easier to fight them off than to try and turn them off once they started. However, there were instances when I found it challenging to shed tears at funerals because I genuinely believed in the existence of life beyond the grave. In such cases, if someone had been suffering, death could be seen as an answered prayer for them.
In May 2021, when Jason’s father passed away, I struggled to sustain prolonged grief. Jason himself stayed remarkably occupied, clearing out his dad’s shop and assisting his mother, a deliberate effort to divert his thoughts from the profound loss he was enduring. Instead, I tried to focus on the humorous moments I had shared with Danny. He was a gentle soul, filled with humor, never uttering a negative word about anyone, and deeply devoted to his family. Danny had fought a grueling battle against lung cancer, and it was evident that he was ready to depart. I wholeheartedly believed that his body continued to battle, but his soul had already made peace with the idea of moving on. Often, we desire to cling to our loved ones, yet letting go can bring solace to the dying, who sometimes hold on just for the sake of those they leave behind.
A year and six days after Jason’s loss, his mother succumbed to Covid-19. Covid had also recently claimed the life of Jason’s closest friend, Terry. These consecutive losses took an immense toll on Jason, and though I wished for him to grieve and heal, it became increasingly challenging for him. Was I saddened by these losses? Undoubtedly. However, I bore witness to the discomfort, pain, and anxiety that tormented Jason’s mother, Robbie, as she lay in her hospital bed. She had longed to reunite with Danny for twelve agonizing months, a sentiment she had meticulously documented in journals. Despite the sorrow of losing my in-laws under such circumstances, a sense of tranquility washed over me, knowing that they were both where they wanted to be. Once you grasp the concept of life after death, grieving takes on a different hue. You grieve for your own losses, but you also celebrate the departed’s newfound eternal life.
The Idiosyncratic Nature of Grief:
Grief is an intensely personal journey unique to each individual. In my case, I cope with grief by cherishing the fond memories. However, I also tend to shield myself from the raw pain that accompanies loss, and sometimes, this self-protection opens the door to addictive behaviors resurfacing in my life. Over time, I’ve come to realize that maintaining a sound mental state requires me to confront and express my grief. If you find it challenging to release your grief, I strongly recommend seeking the support of a therapist or even confiding in someone, even if they are a stranger. Pain often heals more swiftly when shared with others. Feel free to reach out to us if you’re struggling with grief; we can direct you to resources that have aided us significantly in coping with the profound losses we’ve endured.