Fear and I have been close companions lately. Very close. So close I stopped writing for others more than a few sentences at a time for over two months now. I could write, but only for myself. Thought blurbs, moments I didn’t want to lose, feelings I didn’t want to ignore.
I wanted to. I wanted to write so much more, but when I began to write the abundance of what wanted to be expressed through me felt like too much. And so I stopped. Frozen in time and in expression. Waiting and allowing for the thaw out to begin.
Five years into studying the nervous system, I understand the freeze state much more. I can see it through the lens of compassion versus the chronic critic that keeps asking- “what the hell is wrong with you??”
I also understand that when we start to thaw out, when the internal traffic jam begins to have more flow, the first emotion that wants to move through is usually the one who has been trying to direct traffic and has been raising their hand hoping to get called on when space allows.
And for me that has been grief. The sacred kind that deserves a voice.
In early April I had declared to my therapist I was done doing deep dives and wanted to start living boldly with the onset of Spring. A few days later, on my son’s birthday, my father and step mother called to inquire if I had been in contract with my step brother. I felt the tone before I heard it in my step mother’s voice- a quiet fear that could not be quiet.
A fear I know so well. The kind you feel when you don’t know what to expect but something tells you what you can expect is not what you want to know.
Her son was not answering his phone calls. He was not responding to texts. He went silent. And we all know another’s silence can be absolutely deafening in our own mind.
They didn’t know what to do, who could help, where to go. They were 1,000 miles away feeling helpless. And if there is one feeling I dislike more than the rest, it is helplessness.
I feared the worst. It’s what happens when you lose someone unexpectedly in your life, particularly when it happens more than once. I resisted strongly to heed the call. My fear was incredibly loud, with a soft shaky voice.
While I reasoned out loud, I hung up the phone to take a breath and acknowledge that my love for my family was louder than my fear and I made the decision with my partner to drove an hour to the house to check on my step brother. My sibling for the past 30 something years, who I lived with for several years and the man I spoke to only a few days prior.
I can still feel the dread I felt driving to the house. And how I tried to make light of it. Of the panic that came over me when we arrived to a dark house. Of the moments that lead up to us finding him gone- possibly for days. The terror and fear that takes over and the agony of the moment when you realize your fear- this time- is correct.
Dead by suicide.
As I write this I feel the sting in my eyes from the salty tears wanting to escape and the chest that feels heavy with the weight of the love it holds. So much sadness to lose someone you love this way. So so much sadness.
And then rumination, and panic, and fury, and confusion, and then calm. Moments of peace. Moments of relief that he is no longer suffering. Then joy when the heaviness feels a little lighter and a smidge more free. And then, when you least expect it, which translates to, when you least want to feel it, the cycle begins again.
The added layer of bringing up my childhood wounds of losing my mom to suicide seemed achingly unfair at first. I mean really? I have to feel it all over again?
The shock, the horror, the feelings of betrayal from God. The fear that nothing is safe and no one is safe and I am definitely not safe. So many fears rising and falling and screaming and shouting and then- silent. Because even fear needs a break.
There were a million reasons to stop writing and stop responding to life’s call, but the biggest one for me was- it just felt like too much. Because sometimes, it just is. And “too much” deserves a break too.
Its been nine weeks since my stepbrother died and I am still counting. The time gap feels important to me. It reminds me that it happened in the past and is no longer happening right now, even though there are plenty of moments my body seems unconvinced of that truth.
Trauma is sneaky like that and I love her for it. She reminds us that sometimes the events of the past are so big and so important that they must be visited on repeat, held and comforted until they feel less like fear and more like love.
Love in the shape of sadness. Love for ourselves, love for others. Tears that spill out everywhere when our heart is wide open in its most natural state. The kind of love we don’t need to clean up.
To live fully, we are asked to feel it all. And so we do. Or some of us do.
And some of us let fear dominate when it comes to releasing what is bound up inside us. That’s okay. Sometimes courage takes awhile to remember why it exists.
For now, I share my fear with you that shifted into sadness. The kind I won’t apologize for. Because sadness was never meant to be shamed. It is meant to be expressed and loved. And that’s what I intend to keep doing, even when fear is right by my side.
Have you ever experienced a fear around feeling sadness or grief? Been told it was not welcome or okay? If so, it may be time to get to know that fear and ask how it shows up in your life and where it could use some comfort.
I’ll be here if you need a reminder you’re not alone. None of us are.
Lynn Reilly is a licensed professional counselor, master energy therapist, and author of the self-help book, 30 Days to Me and the children’s book, The Secret to Beating the Dragon. She is also a contributing author telling her story of hope and transformation in the book, Crappy to Happy.
Lynn is a lifelong counselor with an expertise in understanding human behavior and sharing this knowledge with others. Her passion is to inspire people of all ages how to support themselves while living a serendipitous life…a life filled with unexpected joy and passion…a life meant to be.
