Grief

I have never felt the need to do a pre-writing activity for my blog, but I find myself organizing the many thoughts buzzing in my head right at this moment. Like most of my posts, it might be helpful to start at the beginning of the story, so let’s go back to last week.

Tuesday of last week started out pretty typical. I was trying to balance the never-ending chaos that consumes every school day. It was library day, which meant the students were extra sneaky, and extra non-compliant. I was tired after Second Period, which is the tell-tale sign of a long, long day.

As I walked down the hallway, I saw one of my soccer girls crying. This wasn’t your typical cry. This was bad, and I knew before I even got the news. They found her brother that morning, dead. We would all hear rumors throughout the day – a trademark in a small town – but none of those rumors really mattered. She lost someone she never imagined losing, and no rumor or story or “did you hear” would bring him back.

The news hit me hard. Like, brick wall hard. This girl is a leader and a kind soul. She is passionate, observant, and hilarious. Her peers look up to her, and she was now heart-broken in a way very few people can comprehend.

Anyone who knows me personally has probably heard about my best friends from high school. We walked through the halls and called ourselves the “fantastic four.” We were friends on the soccer field for basically our entire lives, but we were sisters anywhere besides that soccer complex. The bond we shared, and still do share, was built on a foundation of heartaches- some being much more serious and life altering than others. Of course we dealt with some breakups and friend drama, but the “fantastic four” went through some things no one should ever have to.

One of my “sisters” lost her father. He was the gentlest spirit you ever had the extreme pleasure of knowing, and he was the best cheerleader during all those years in soccer uniforms. But, in the midst of all the great things this man was, he was not MY father. Fatherly? Certainly. But I have never had to process a grief like my friend. I remember the funeral, and I remember looking into her eyes and realizing the world, as she knew it, was over. That realization, that moment, is suspended in time.

Weeks went by, and now years. Our friendship has withstood the test of time. No we don’t speak every day, week, or month. But I know that she would be there to hold me at the peak of my grief, should that terrible day ever come.

Fast-forward a couple years. I had just returned home from Senior Beach Week. Though I look back on that time now with tear-stained lenses, I suppose the week itself was pretty great. I graduated high school 6^th in my class, and was heading to college in the fall. The beach was fun and chaotic, and I returned home exhausted and ready to spend a great “last” summer with the “fantastic four” and more.

I received a text message from my cousin asking me if Kyle was okay. Immediately I scoured my brain for friends named Kyle, to no avail.

“I don’t know anyone named Kyle. Did he go to the beach? Was there a wreck?” My mind was still in beach mode, I suppose.

 

“No, Whitney’s brother,” was the response I will never forget.

 

That message was the catalyst for a wall of fire and grief I was never prepared for. The whole week, from that point on, is really a blur. There are moments of clarity and vividness – my mom calling as I drove to Whitney’s house telling me the awful, terrible news I felt in my gut, she’s asking me where I am, I’m screaming…I think, Kelsey is pulling the car over, I am laying in someone’s driveway, now I am at Whitney’s house, and now I am hugging her mother and she is crying and where is Kyle? I am hugging the mother of a little boy who died. I am hugging a mother who is like a mother to me, and no one will ever replace her boy. No one can even come close.

The “fantastic four” permanently became a party of five that night. No, another person did not enter into our holy circle of sleepovers and gossip, but rather the idea of grief. Grief reared its ugly, twisted head in our perfect circle. One of the four losing a father is awful enough, but a second member losing a younger sibling – that was just unheard of. Unthinkable. Unimaginable.

And yet. Here we find ourselves 4 years older. I would say 4 years wiser, but I’m not so sure I’ll ever consider myself wise. I think I consider myself contemplative. I’m constantly making these crazy connections, and a crazy, unfortunate connection I made last week was the idea of Grief.

I sat on the back church pew last Thursday night and watched someone I already love, even after a short amount of time, being consoled by a handful of people. They embraced her in her grief, and literally held her up. The weight of Grief settled around the entire church, and I felt as if it lost all oxygen. The walls felt like they were closing in, and now I see a casket holding a much younger boy. Instead of only knowing one person being comforted, I know a whole family. I am standing in line again to comfort, but how do I find the words? How does this go again? Words don’t matter, Halie. Just hold her up and take on the burden of that grief if only for a moment. Let her breathe. Let her breathe, and you can breathe tomorrow when it isn’t your brother lying in the casket.

I think those of us who only look through the windows or peak behind the curtains to get a glimpse of this type of grief really understand what it means to witness Grief. When you are right in the middle of it all, I imagine it feels more like numbness. I have witnessed grief that no soul should bear witness to, and I feel harder, and yet somehow softer, too. There is a loss so great that no one should see it. A mother mourning the loss of her child, while trying to remember the children she still has. Or a high school girl losing her father. Even though she worried that day would come, it didn’t make her grief anymore bearable.

Grief should be one of those words that are capitalized. It is as formidable as the most sinister enemy, and yet, Grief bears witness to the most resilient spirits any person or being has ever seen.

These people that have terrible things happen to them, which have the best things taken from them, are those people that inspire. They are the ones to remember if something doesn’t go your way.

They are why I am writing this tonight, when really I am nervous about my lesson plan tomorrow. On my worst days, I remember looking over to my best friend and her mother during Kyle’s funeral while some of us sang, “The Lord Bless You and Keep You.” I remember a look of gratitude in their eyes for whatever reason.

I hope my returning gaze on that day in June, over four years ago, held a look of gratitude as well. I feel grateful for having Kyle in my life, for Albert, and for everyone else who taught me that you can live with grief while also allowing hope to settle in around it, momentarily blurring the edges between pain and light.

 

(It’s a terrible picture, but this is the first time I have ever worn CAMOUFLAGE. Duct tape on our shoes in memory of my student’s brother.  I would break any personal fashion law (haha) for my girls.)

Trust Without Borders

This is going to be the most personal blog post to date.

I’ve let you in on my thoughts many times before, but I’ve never felt as a vulnerable as I do right now. I don’t want to shock anyone, or offend anyone either, for that matter.

With that being said, however, I feel like for writing to be powerful and therapeutic, it has to be honest and open.

A couple years ago, I was in such a dark place that I didn’t even fully recognize the depth of my psychological issues. I was in a very unhealthy relationship, and as they say (whoever “they” are), the first love is always the hardest. Or the hardest to get over. Or whatever. Something about the fact that when you love someone, even if it turns out you’re not good for each other, you have a really hard time moving on from that kind of feeling.

I am no exception, and it seems that I struggled, and still struggle, with my past relationships- not only dating relationships, but failed friendships as well. I have always felt very inadequate. Whether that was an idea planted in my mind by someone specific or by society, I never felt good enough.

In the classroom, this is still a theme in my life. I am slowly changing, but the other night, one of my students messaged me on Facebook and she was very upset. I’m a worrier, so naturally my mind goes to worse case scenarios like deaths or sickness. It turns out, however, that she was only heart-sick. It seems that my lovely student’s boyfriend cheated on her. What does that mean to a 14 year old? I’m still not sure.

The crazy thing about this conversation was that I felt like I was talking to myself three years ago if I had been given that chance. Some aspects of the drama were much different, but much of it felt familiar as well.

“I don’t know what to do. I’ve never been that type of girl. You know? The kind that depends on someone else to make them happy. I hate it.”

That idea hit my like a physical blow. I did the “teacher/mentor” routine. I explained that her value was indefinable by any other individual, and that her feelings were valid and that I was sorry she was having a hard time. I even told her, (as she had mentioned her mom was a great help) that mothers know much more than we give them credit for. “I used to ignore what my mom would say, but now I look back on things that happened and realize she was right all along.” She assured me that she recognized and appreciated her mother’s input and advice.

This whole conversation stopped me in my tracks. What kind of people do I expect my kids to become if I am so unsure of who I am? Being a good mentor starts with accepting the fact that you’re not perfect and forgiving yourself for this fact. Nor am I the solution to their problems. I can accept the fact that I might not be their solution, but what I can’t help but worry about is the fact that I might seem hypocritical to my students if they knew what I felt about myself this time last year.

I have been going to a church I genuinely enjoy, with people I already love so much. I feel like I have a family in Inez. It is composed of the people I work and live with, the girls I coach, the people I coach with, and the people who go to the same church I attend. In those dark years I referenced earlier, I felt like church was pointless. I didn’t remember the joy I found in church all those years ago, so I pushed Jesus to the wayside. Rather than run to the church as a place of solace, I found it the perfect scapegoat for all of the issues in my life.

My boyfriend was mean to me, my best friend’s brother died, my other best friend’s father died, and all of these kids around the world are hungry and sick and wanting a better life. I was willing to blame organized religion for almost anything. While I still struggle with several aspects of some religious ideologies, I am beyond happy to remember that JOY again. I feel happy to sing on Sunday mornings in choir, and I look forward to church all week. I haven’t felt this way in years, and was starting to feel less and less spiritual before coming to Kentucky.

So maybe there’s something in the water. Maybe I’m losing my mind. Or maybe, I’m moving past my self-hatred and self-pity and onto something much bigger than myself. My kids are showing me how much of life is cyclical and normal. My worries are no different or more important than the rest of the world’s troubles.

I have felt so overwhelmed these past few weeks, – emotionally and physically – but for the first time in a long time, my spirit is strong. Even when I have a “bad” day, I feel immensely fortunate to be here in Inez. My kids are the best, and I say that without reservation. I didn’t say perfect, because none of us are. In these moments of self-doubt and the feelings of inadequacies these last few weeks, I found a great song to listen to. In the song, the singer says: “Spirit lead me where my trust is without borders.” She repeats this line many times, and I find it so calming. Really I want this to be my life’s motto. It’s a constant reminder of what I’m feeling. I feel as though I’m not cut out for this job some days, but rather than wallow in self-pity, I need to trust in a bigger picture. I am only a single person. Trust in yourself, trust in whatever God you claim, and trust in the idea that changes really are the only constant in this crazy life. I say this a lot, but I am truly lucky. Lucky to have the people I have in my life and lucky to have the scars I do, because they remind me of everything I should be happy for now.

(One of the many spectacular views in Eastern Kentucky)