Premature Grief

Grief is an obvious result when loss happens.
I have been working on this post for about a month now.  It has been really hard to write and verbalize.

I will always remember her as one of my most favorite people in the world.
I remember thinking of her as the most beautiful person I had ever seen.  I still do, in fact.  She was what I wanted to be when I was her age.
I remember spending a lot of time doing things to please her.
I remember picking her flowers and making little gifts to give her and to get to spend more time with her.
I remember telling her things that I did not feel safe telling my own mother or parents.
I remember feeling safe confiding in her.
I remember one phone call where hearing her voice made me cry.  She asked me what was the matter, and why I was crying, and I answered (honestly) that I loved her and missed her and was looking forward to seeing her soon.
I remember laughing about funny things.
I remember loving to hug her, and how welcome it felt to stop by their house.
I remember crying as we shared problems, as she gave me advice that I still believe and live by today.
I remember her being the only one who would stand up to my father and point an accusing finger in his face.

She did a lot to create and maintain a relationship with me and our family and my sister.  I was always a little jealous that they were closer (or seemed closer) than I felt to her.
She was honest to a fault and always so sure of herself.
She felt deeply, but knew when to keep her mouth shut, and always had wise and far-seeing counsel when I needed it.

I loved her more than most people in my life, and I didnt know very many.

I also remember her eyebrows running together in a hard line as she surveyed me with disappointment and disapproval.
I remember sending her Martina McBride's "This One's For the Girls" because it made me think lovingly of her, and her cold response.
I remember crying when I read the hurtful things she said to me and my sister.
I remember feeling the betrayal and pain that consumed me.
 I remember hearing her voice in my head as her last email cut me, basically invalidating my thoughts, feelings, and emotions, and pushed me away.
I remember hearing from a third party the rumors that were being told about me.
I remember waiting for them to confront me with the allegations and at least allow me to answer the charges, or explain them, or laugh because they were blatantly untrue.
I remember spending a terrible Christmas Eve and the next morning, hurt and wanting nothing more than to run out the door when I had flown back there to purposely spend the holiday with them.
I remember feeling unwanted and stonewalled.  Not allowed to even defend myself, they all just 'knew' it was true.


The last I heard about her, she sent my sister some texts which I was allowed to know the contents. I remember crying with my sister on the phone as I could hear her heart break and bleed.
I still hurt when I hear that song on the work radio station.
I hurt when I want to call her and just talk, but know that I cant.
I grieve when I talk with other people about their family.

The thing is: she isnt dead.
As far as I know she is alive and doing fine.
I miss her, and I wish I could reach out and hug her without being afraid of being stabbed by her disapproval and negative comments.
I wish I could spend a holiday with her and the other people in the family just being family.
She meant more to me than my own mother, and suddenly I find myself with another hole in my life where a friend used to be.
I feel like she died, when I know she is very much alive.
I love you, Grandmom.  I miss how you used to be.

Free; still

I am still free.
I have to keep reminding myself that.

All the old pathways in my brain want to keep me in bondage and under the yoke; but it is my prerogative to undermine, overthrow, and vanquish them.

It has been warm, hot, beautiful, and muggy out.  Singing comes easy to me again, at work, at the house, driving.... any time.  I finally found a corner of the store where I can work my heart out and people notice and appreciate my efforts.  I am generally undisturbed, and I can hide very easily from people I dont want to see or talk with. (yay!!) (not that I espouse the idea of running from troubles, but you know when you are having a more vulnerable day, the last thing you need is to get into that conversation that could be the bug-zapper to the rest of your week...)

I was walking in to work thursday (the night were we have a kid's eat free promo that brings 200 some kids and their nightmare parents) and I was singing under my breath.  I was wearing a pretty shirt that I have liked since I was 12 or so (yeah, they still fit) and striding up to another day like I owned the world. I noticed something out of the corner of my eye and realized that The Big White Van They Drive was in the handicapped parking spot (all the people at work call it that).  The one older daughter was in the driver's seat, and she was staring at me hard.  Inside, my mind recoiled at my outfit and called me immodest and I realized how unladylike my walk was and my dark eye-makeup and my hair down and shown-off for the whole world to lust at....
And then I LAUGHED at myself.

I was still free.

So I kept on walking into my job where I support myself, having driven there in a car I bought with my own sweat and that I dont owe a penny on, and had a normal day.  I know she just recently learned to drive, being the only one of the girls with a driver's license.  Her father is obviously quiverfull as the checks say " (dad's name) and Sons" and the women do all the shopping.  I know she is stuck at home caring for her large family, elderly parents, disabled sister, special dietary needs, and probably a farm and a 'ministry' to boot. 
The night before I had gone out with friends from work and drank a couple beers.  We laughed, talked, made plans for a "May the 4th" Star Wars party, I drove one girl home, and slept like a log.

I am still free.

Later that night, as I was in the midst of the chaotic "after-closing-cleaning-time" for my section, I saw the other person who could make me feel inferior: the local ATI mom.  She was at the Deli case, glaring at the Indonesian lady who was cutting her ham for her.  I was singing and walking around with my huge colander on my hip and stocking veggies for the next business day.  I looked at her hard and then turned around sharply (flipping my hair) and walked into the dish pit.

I am still free.

She can go home to her balding, ATI husband and her hard-working, depressed, unmarried daughters who have already made and served and cleaned up dinner after working in the garden all day, and wonder why they try so hard and dont really feel happy inside.
I could give her a couple pointers, but I dont think she would listen to a word I said.

Who cares?  I am FREE.