Does my heart break because I expect it to? Is it really inevitable? If I would instead, determine that it won’t bother me at all, could I really escape unharmed?
I’ve been pondering these questions today as I recover from yet another heart wrenching Mother’s Day. In years past, I thought I’d be ok, that the pain wouldn’t get to me too badly. I’d brave the saccharine church services; turn a blind eye to the flowers pinned on mother’s breasts and try in vain to ignore the longing in my soul to be counted among the recognized. This year, I decided to not bother. To hibernate away in seclusion and stop pretending that I am invincible. I thought perhaps to spare myself the added pain of public pretending.
While I was spared from telling lies of smiles and nods to friends because I didn’t want to ruin their day, I was all too free to grieve to the fullest and I certainly did. I screamed and cried and sobbed until my throat was raw. I clawed at the tiles on the shower wall when the hot spray no longer soothed me. I cursed at God who seemed the easiest target and in turn ran into His open arms to finally feel the only comfort that could be offered. I said my children’s names as if they might otherwise be forgotten. I dreamed of the day when I’d finally be able to hold them near.
And now. Today. I wonder.
Was that really any better? What did it accomplish other than to feed my own selfish feelings of wanting to matter. I thought my heart would break and so it did. Should I not instead decide to be happy for the life I live and therefore be happy? Could it really be that easy?
I don’t know. It’s too late to undo yesterday, I guess I’ll have to try tomorrow a different way and see if the result is any better. My suspicion is that there is not ‘better’ when it comes to heartache. It is what is and coping only the lie we tell ourselves to somehow cling to a hope of a healing not yet here.