In December, the New Yorker published a piece called Let It Go: Are we becoming a nation of hoarders? I read it after my father mentioned that he had thought of me while reading it.
The piece defines hoarding disorder (H.D.) as “a persistent difficulty in discarding possessions, regardless of their actual value, to the point where the person’s accumulated goods congest living areas and impede their intended use.”
The photograph they used for the article is of Little Edie Beale at Grey Gardens, so my first impression wasn’t “this is so me.” But the article’s focus shifts and asks us to consider persistent complex bereavement disorder.
“That’s when you can’t get over the death of someone close to you within the period of time that the DSM [the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders] considers to be appropriate.”
The DSM suggests that a child needs six months to get over it. I made some quick calculations in my head and realized I was about seven-and-a-half years overdue. Damn it.
No, but seriously. I got to thinking whether or not, regardless of the DSM’s clearly unrealistic prognosis, I was hoarding my grief. That’s to say, was I making myself unnecessarily sad.
It was a really hard question to answer, and one everyone needs to answer for him or herself, but I knew there was some truth to it.
After seven plus years, I knew I’d made progress. But sometimes thinking about the progress I’d made was what scared me the most. When I realized how despite years of deep sadness and feelings of incompletion I was a happy person living life fully, I would feel sad. What if I get to the point where I think of her and I’m not sad at all, ever? Or what if one day I can’t remember what she was like?
The idea of not being able to remember my mom scared me into deciding that I’d rather be sad than live without the reminder of her death. I thought back to the seemingly uncharacteristic times where I’d sit in my bed, wailing about the fact that she wasn’t here anymore. Sometimes I’d find myself crying when a parent died in a TV show even if I didn’t actually feel sad in that moment. I would cry for the character, because I remembered the way raw grief feels — it’s exposing. There’s a time when your memories don’t help in covering it up, in helping you forget — even if only temporarily.
I’d cry the way a little kid cries…with the force of my entire body and with no regard for what was going on outside of myself. Then, the next week I wouldn’t even think about her.
When my dad and I spoke again, I told him that I knew I “hoarded” my grief. I held on to the undeniably sad moments for a time when I felt like I was doing too well. An invisible thread connected me to that sadness, so that at any moment I could find my way back to it.
Because when you’ve lived almost eight years without the person who birthed you and you’ve felt happy for most of those eight years, you ask yourself…how?
I know how…because humans have an uncanny ability to heal and to persevere, and we do it for our own good. I know it would break my mom’s heart to see me cry the way I would when all I wanted was to feel close to her again. But at this point the time I’ve spent without her is easier to recall and seemed more significant than the times we’d spent together when I was 13 or 14.
One thing I’ve learned about grief is that you get used to it.
I was used to our relationship being about her being gone, and it was almost comforting, because in a time where I couldn’t always remember her perfectly, I knew I could at least feel something that was connected to her.
“Recovery is terrifying when you don’t know who you are without your sadness.”
Once I said it out loud and admitted to someone what I was doing, it was easier to decide that I wanted my relationship with her to be different.
“You’re much more like her in the moments where you are laughing wholeheartedly,” my dad told me.
I knew he was right and it was a thought I’d had independent of our conversation. Once I internalized the fact that I could live the way my mom would’ve been living and be close to her in my joyful moments, I was able to let go of my sadness, because I knew that my joy was directly proportional to how close I felt to her.
This article describes exactly the guilt I feel 8 years after losing my mom. You make beautiful points, and it’s comforting to know that there are others with the same thoughts/concerns. Thank you.