“You can be a victim in one situation but that doesn’t mean you are a victim in all situations. I’m just saying.”
Not positive, but I believe these words were directed toward me (in a sly way) after I expressed my hurt and disappointment in people in my life who I feel have not been there for me since Ben’s death. If they were meant for me, those words came from a person who I loved but have not spoken with in more than a year and a half. They hurt me deeply.
If I am allowed to be a “victim” in only one situation, I obviously became one on the day that Ben died. I supposedly used up my one chance then so I guess that means that I am to separate everything that has happened to me since Ben’s death, and who I now am, from the actual event as if the very essence of my being is not now or never could again be connected to the most tragic, most horrific, event of my life, the death of my child. I am who I am because of every single moment of my lifetime, so how could I possibly perform that separation? Can I flip a switch and say “all better”? And on what day in the past two years could I (should I) have made that disconnection? There you go, all better now…no more time for healing or grieving allowed. Go back retroactively to the day that your son died. Hit re-play and perform as if you are no longer and will never again be affected by his death since, by relating his death to your disappointment and hurt caused by people turning away from you after his death, you are portraying yourself as a victim. His death and your life thereafter are totally unrelated.
People need people–all of us do! I never imagined that one of my children might die before me and, when it happened, I never imagined that people whom I thought loved me would turn away from me. But that happened. If my expressing my need to be shown love leads one to believe that I am “playing victim,” so be it. I am not ashamed to say it. I am a grieving mom who needs love, and I am hurt and I react when you run away from me. Love me! Wouldn’t it be a great world if those words worked? Love me in my pain–in all of its sometimes grotesque ugliness–because maybe, just maybe, you might discover there is an even greater kindness within a broken heart, a compassion born from pain! You can choose to love me or you can judge me and condemn me as playing victim for expressing a need to be loved.
I’ve always been one tough cookie, a really tough one, but I will readily admit that I am now weak and also dependent on those around me to sometimes lift me up out of my darkness and depression. I also admit that there is now within me an innate sadness and despair that I struggle with every single day. But I fight to keep going. I fight to find joy. I fight to be strong for my two other kids and my husband and my grand-kids, even though I admit there are times that I don’t have enough strength to battle the manic voices in my own head or the ache in my own heart that wears me down to a nub. But I do it, each and every day. I believe showing our weakness and vulnerability is a sign of strength. Am I perceived as playing victim if I show that I am weak and saddened by my son’s death?
When Ben died, I told myself that I would not run away from my grief, that I could not bury it. I knew I would carry that sadness with me forever. The day I started to say these words out loud: “You will be sad every day of your life” was the day I gave myself the freedom to not pretend with myself, to not pretend that I could ever be “fixed.” Perhaps that was the day that the balance started to come back into my life. Accept you will be sad–try to balance that with joy. I have fought through some of the darkest days and darker nights just to overcome the very fierce desire to be done with the pain. Pure hell on earth, but I will not run from it, and I will not deny that the pain exists just so others don’t interpret me as playing victim. I hurt. I hurt to the very core of my being just as I am sure every other parent does who has to endure this pain. I am a victim of that. I admit it. It is what it is. I will not lie to me. I will not lie to you to pretend that I am not who I am. I laugh. I cry. I love. I hurt. I am human and who I am will always be affected by my son’s death. Everyone of us are what we have lived and what our own eyes and hearts perceive…and while I may give in to my grief, I will not give up on balancing the good in my life with my sadness.
I am not sorry for stating that I need people to love me, and I am not sorry for being genuine in my pain, even if that means I am perceived by some as playing victim.
If I have learned anything in life, I have learned that we should not judge a broken heart–for we will all have one some day, for one reason or another– and we will all need people to love us through our pain. I’m just saying.
Update: a recent incident found me searching for this post again. Ironically my incident occurred on almost the exact same timeline of my own grief as when you felt compelled to write this post. A resounding yes to everything you wrote here. I am sorry for the pain that lead you to these words.
Exactly. May 22nd was three years since Graham died. One of my brothers contacted me. The other one never said one word, nor did his wife, who always says things like “I’m here for you.” However, she has only called me a couple of times in 3 years. I know they knew the date because my daughter posts things on Facebook. So, I’m hurt, but what do I do? I feel resentful and I know they think I should be better by now.
Reblogged this on MourningAmyMarie and commented:
Unfortunately, I can relate to Susan’s post.
Like Sheri, I am going to reblog this too although the ones who I would like to read this have already grown weary or bored with my tragedy and no longer read my blog. Susan, I could write a blog in response to your blog because it touches a familiar nerve. People’s reaction to your tragedy is a reflection of who they are and has nothing at all to do with the value of Ben’s life or your reaction to losing him. Victim? You betcha! Against our will we became victims. I, too, have made peace with the fact that I will live with pain every day for the rest of my life. That is the ramification of my broken heart and my life without Amy. Secondary losses are painful but they do not hold a candle to the devastation of losing a child. But it still hurts and yes you deserve to be loved and it would make sense you would seek it from familiar faces. One of the most difficult lessons I have learned is that it doesn’t matter how long someone was in your life before Devastation Day … there are no guarantees they will be able to support you now.
Reblogged this on mybennybear and commented:
So very well said. Been feeling a lot of this lately again when we celebrated Benny’s third birthday. How soon others forget that you’re still in pain.