All of Life is Grieving

So I went to my EMDR (Eye Movement Desensitization and Reprocessing) session. For those who don't know, EMDR can go to some rather weird places. Memories that EMDR bring up include singular moments in time... up until this point. This round an entire entire span of years was contextualized. And it's brought me to a most inconvenient truth, one which my father has been trying to teach me for years; all of life is grieving.  There's never a moment when you're needing to grief, on some level, no matter if you like it or not.

Most of my teenage years were defined by an emptiness and a rage that held no clear purpose. That loneliness, that desolation, would keep me up at night. I was unable to understand what was happening. For years I've still felt it, even as it's begun to fade with Maria's return to my life, as well as the advent of our children. As of recently that feeling has begun to return in full force. I've done my best to deal with this sudden resurgence of nihilism and self-loathing, but it's not been easy. There's just been this hole in my heart that I've not really been able to figure out. 

And then this flashback happened.

There were very few times in my life where I've felt in control. One of those points was the summer when I was thirteen or so. I was living out in a dilapidated trailer behind Maria's house, on thirty acres of woods. The children who had tormented me for over half a decade were miles away. I awoke, ate breakfast, and went outside to peace and tranquility. I'd hang out with Maria and her family. I'd run through the woods and get myself lost so I didn't have to deal with anyone if I didn't have to. I would go in the evenings to train at the dojo, prepping myself to become national champion. I'd come home and go to sleep. During the day I'd draw, read, and not see a single soul that I did not want to. It wasn't an easy time. It was one of the few times I had a knowledge of who I was, where I was going, and how I related to those around me. 

And then that fall we left. I stopped training Muay Thai, due to a lack of a dojo. I'd had what I thought was a falling out with Maria, and so I'd stopped seeing her.

Every single day after that point was a living hell.

When I was a senior in high school one of my friends told me that when she had first met me she was terrified, because she had no idea what to expect from me. The druggies were apparently discussing what I could possibly be on to make me so volatile. Shaken, I turned to one of my sisters, who confirmed I was mercurial, on a very good day, and that in general it was a good idea to just avoid me altogether. None of them, of course, had been there at nights to watch what happened when the sun went down and all my disappointment came crashing in. But at the time I couldn't remember: there was a time when I was in control. I may not have been very happy (happiness is overrated), nor had much peace (highly underrated), but I was in control. 

And all of a sudden I have that memory back. There was, indeed, a time when I felt myself, the master of my own fate. For many that may not make sense. But knowing that the holes in my soul were once plugged, that I had found some form of equilibrium, no matter how flawed and fleeting, is enough. It also explains why, when I try to train Muay Thai now, a feeling of emptiness and grief overwhelms me. My life had been broken for years; it's not going to repair overnight.

I called my father and told him what had happened. My father responded with regret. He hadn't taught me to grieve the emotions I had been feeling all that time because he hadn't been raised to do it either. How much could have been prevented if only I had been taught how to process and not judge what I didn't understand! I did not need to know why I was sad to process it. It's fortunate I know now, but my father was himself grieved by how badly the ball had been dropped.

I mean, how else was I going to know? As a culture the United States is terrible at grieving. We still labor under the delusion that work equals a result, and therefore  if we somehow keep pushing ahead we will find meaning in what we are doing. Nothing is further from the truth, of course. You must grieve. You must sit with your sorrow, process it, and allow it to influence your personality. Missing things is normal. You cannot restore balance by ignoring the warning klaxons in your nervous system that tell you that not all is well. And there are so many things in the world that hurt! And yes, if they hurt you you have to grieve them. That doesn't mean pausing your life; not grieving stops your life, even while your heart is beating. But it does mean you cannot separate your grief from the rest of your identity. You cannot see yourself without the grief over things that went wrong. You are not just your happiness.

I keep finding that, whenever I pray, actually pray, that I find myself in a state of heartbreak. It's not that praying breaks my heart. It's that I find that I am broken. Encountering God; encountering wholeness, is going to include at least one moment where you realize that you're not. And those things, those breaks in my soul, will stand out. Isaiah, upon meeting God face-to-face, cried out "WOE IS ME". He wasn't crying out because God terrified Him. He cried out because he realized that his heart was broken in a million pieces. And he was overwhelmed by what he saw, within himself. Like anyone else he probably had pushed aside his emotional damage, tried to ignore it, wanted to focus on something that wouldn't make him have to face his own heartbreak. But looking at the face of God requires you to see it; Isaiah could not ignore it.

And so he grieved. He had to accept what he was.

And God helped him do it.

Because of all the names that we've given God, the most beautiful (and therefore most true) is Mercy.