My dad passed away when I was ten years old and when he was 37 years old. He died of a brain tumour. In late January this year it was 22 years since he died.
My grief around losing my dad has been complicated, deeply painful and at times, lonely. It’s a cliché, but like most people’s experience of grief, my process has been anything but linear.
It’s taken me most of my adult life to recognise how much I was affected by losing my dad. Partly because in my late teens and early twenties this truth was hidden beneath several layers of complex thoughts and feelings, that unknowingly blocked out my pain. Of course, it would be an oversimplification to say that all of my difficulties during this time were a consequence of my dad dying, but this experience certainly played a major role in me coping in the ways that I did.
Shame has also stopped me from acknowledging my grief for my dad. At different points I’ve felt weak and dramatic when I’ve acknowledged my sadness, to myself, or someone else. I have been scared that when I speak openly people might think that I “just want sympathy” or that I’m attention seeking (I’m even noticing both of these fears arise as I write this post). I have felt a strong external pressure to “move on” and “leave the past behind”. Eventually, that pressure also became internally driven. I felt ashamed that I couldn’t “get over” my dad dying.
What I’ve learned is that to let go of the past I first needed to surrender to it. I needed to give the past my full attention. This process has been a backwards and forwards one, and very slow. It’s happened, and is still happening, in the presence of trusted and supportive people.
For me, the most significant part of grieving my dad’s death has been allowing myself to feel all of the feelings that were buried down deep at the time of his illness and his passing. Allowing these emotions in as an adult has been debilitating at times. There have been moments when I have felt so drowned by sadness, fear, guilt, anger and shame that I have wondered if I would ever find a way out.
Finding a way through has been about developing compassion towards myself, and truly allowing the people who love me to support me.
Guilt is another emotion that has featured strongly in my grieving process. If you’ve ever lost someone you love, you may be familiar with the haunting, yet subtle sense of guilt that can accompany the grieving process.
I have vivid memories of myself as a little girl feeling guilty that I hadn’t said goodbye properly. That I hadn’t done enough to help my dad, and my mum. To save him. Soon after he died I felt guilty for not crying enough (and then guilty for crying too much). I felt terribly guilty for not missing him enough. For not thinking about him all the time. Up until recently, as an adult, a sneaking sense of guilt pervaded almost all of the happy moments in life. I felt guilty that I was young, healthy and alive.
Reflecting on and sometimes talking about all of these different types of guilt, why I felt them and what they meant, has helped me to move on from this insidious feeling. Now when I feel joy, love, peacefulness or gratitude, and guilt bubbles to the surface, I notice the feeling and try to expand around it. To allow it to be, rather than will it away. I hope that one day my guilt will fully dissolve, but who knows?
In the lead up to my dad’s anniversary this year I had the sense that my grief had somewhat lifted. My sadness remained, but it somehow felt quieter, more peaceful. For a few days prior, I even had a subtle (and somewhat strange) feeling of wanting to celebrate. Perhaps, I think, fuelled by the relief that came with no longer feeling weighed down and heavy with grief.
Then on the day of my dad’s anniversary, a whole bunch of other emotions came rolling in. Right on cue. I desperately wanted to hold onto the softer, lighter emotions that I had begun to feel, but no amount of trying could stop the anger, shock and sadness that I felt. It was an exhausting day. In part because I felt like the whole process was out of my control. Like some force outside of me was pulling the strings, so to speak.
I got through that day in the best way that I could though. It wasn’t perfect (and I guess that’s not the aim), but I felt grateful to wake the next day with a feeling that something had been “worked through” rather than pushed down, numbed out or denied.
Normally my family and I arrange native flowers for dad’s grave on the day of his anniversary, but this year a few days later, when I felt ready, I bought some flowers for my home instead. I’ve realised that the flowers belong here, with me.
About the Author: Dr Jacqueline Baulch
Dr Jacqueline Baulch is a Clinical Psychologist and the founder of Inner Melbourne Clinical Psychology. Jacqueline is passionate about shifting the “hush-hush” atmosphere surrounding mental illness, emotions and vulnerability. She believes honest and real conversations can spark hope and healing, and help us to feel less alone in this messy business of being human. Swing by Jacqueline’s website, Facebook and Instagram pages for practical, evidence-based tips and resources for improving your mental health, wellbeing and relationships.
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