Yesterday evening was excruciating. I mourned from the very depths of me, yet couldn’t make a sound. It was a dry vomit of emotion, nothing left, yet still it came. Unrelenting.
I can think I’m okay and suddenly see a moment of tenderness when watching Modern Familywith Charlotte or Don or reading a paragraph in a ‘cozy’ book where nothing overtly upsetting should be happening, and suddenly I am right back in this overgrown forest with no trail on a cold and starless night.
I’m reluctant to visit with people much because it starts the cycle of remembering. People want to honour Emily, share stories, and, honestly, I sometimes want to forget. Forget that she was. Forget that our 17 years together were full of love and light along with some precipitous chasms that she would tumble into without warning.
Depression is a tricky beast. That’s all I want to say now. That’s all I can say because I don’t understand it. I’ve never been there. My sadnesses have been around events and circumstances, not a heavy coat that could smother me at any time, without warning or weather, one that was always waiting in the closet for me, no matter the season.
There is an unfathomable sadness in me that we could not fix this thing that existed in her, that we could not make this go away in spite of Don being the most amazing father, with a true soul connection to his Emily, and me being the best mother to our daughter that anyone could honestly be. I don’t say that with pride. I say that with such difficulty because my love, our love, was not enough to save our child. That is a hard burden to bear. Probably the hardest burden I will ever carry. God help me if there is anything more difficult than this.
I’ve been driving today – I drove from Vancouver with Charlotte to Abbotsford to pick up my father, and then delivered them to the bus to take them across the border. They are bound for Seattle to spend time with my sister and extended family over Christmas. Don and I will join them after the celebration. They both need the company and the loving. At this moment, Don and I need space and an ability to get away in the face of either too much joy or too much grief received from others. Both are triggers. Everything is a trigger.
I have pulled over in a parking lot, facing a forest, somewhere on my way home. I don’t really know where I am. I don’t care. I’ll get there eventually.
This heart work is hard. I hate it. And yet I know it is the only way out of this dark night.
18 thoughts on “Heart Work is Hard”
Thank you Leah, we are dealing with that monster too. Depression is so dangerous. We worry every minute of everyday. Hugs to you all.
So here’s the thing that I’ve learned about mental illness: we wouldn’t expect that our love would be enough to cure cancer and so I hope that one day you can give yourselves grace and realize that mental illness is just as medical and just as much a disease as cancer. And sometimes even with the best medical care it’s not enough. I’m sad to share that I know something about this from early experiences in my life. If you ever want to talk about any of this, I’m here for you. If not, that’s ok too, but I see you and my heart knows you did everything you could and so did medical professionals. I’m holding space for you and sending you light today and everyday. <3 Melanie V
That sense of powerlessness is one of the hardest parts about loving someone with depression. If only love was enough to vanquish that tricky beast! If only.
As you soldier on through this difficult pathway ahead, know that there is a veritable army of people who love you, who are behind you, willing you forward every step of the way.
Oh Leah. May you find peace. My heart aches for you and your family. It is well past time that we start acknowledging and treating depression for what it is – a disease – to be treated as such without stigma or shame. My 21 yo son suffers from depression. Sometimes I lie awake at night with worry and don’t want to ever let him out of my sight. You are so right, this heart stuff is hard!
I cannot tell you
how the light comes.
What I know
is that it is more ancient
than imagining.
That it travels
across an astounding expanse
to reach us.
That it loves
searching out
what is hidden
what is lost
what is forgotten
or in peril
or in pain.
That it has a fondness
for the body
for finding its way
toward flesh
for tracing the edges
of form
for shining forth
through the eye,
the hand,
the heart.
I cannot tell you
how the light comes,
but that it does.
That it will.
That it works its way
into the deepest dark
that enfolds you,
though it may seem
long ages in coming
or arrive in a shape
you did not foresee.
And so
may we this day
turn ourselves toward it.
May we lift our faces
to let it find us.
May we bend our bodies
to follow the arc it makes.
May we open
and open more
and open still
to the blessed light
that comes.
by Jan Richardson
Oh Leah , it is so very hard to deal with this loss. She may have felt she was helping you. Depression distorts your thinking and makes you feel worthless . We send you deepest love . Maja and Aaron
reading this, crying with you, loving you
There are no words to describe your loss yet you so eloquent in expressing yourself. Hoping that one day, maybe one day, you will find peace and revel in the love you shared with your daughter.💐
You are right..depression is a,terrible illness…I had a very bad struggle with it many years ago so I know how black it feels…I lost one of my best friends in New Zealand to it …
Leah, thinking of you, Don and Charlotte every day, many times a day. Keep writing! Love, Heather.
This poem has provided me with some comfort when needed. You and Don and Charlotte continue to be incredible humans in the way you are dealing with this. Talking or in your case writing can help with the healing and for others silent contemplation is the tonic needed. Our souls are complex beasts. Your words come from the heart and speak clearly. Wishing you strength and healing now and on into the unknown… anyway, back to the poem. I am sure you will know it:
Do not stand at my grave and weep,
I am not there; I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow,
I am the diamond glints on snow,
I am the sunlight on ripened grain,
I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you awaken in the morning’s hush,
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circled flight.
I am the soft stars that shine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry,
I am not there; I did not die.
Mary Elizabeth Frye
Bless you for your courage and tenacity to not struggle alone in silence. It is the beginning of the journey to ‘being’’ again, and growing to fondly tame the metaphorical ‘Black Dog’ into moments of gentle grief and acceptance of the limitless and beautiful spectrum of your life (Carry Sachse-Hodder).
Xoxoxoxox
What beautiful words, Melanie. This is the perfect way to frame it.
Your love and support were everything Emily could’ve asked for. Depression is a horrific, untameable beast. I wish our love could be enough.
Cocooned by Amanda Bohmont
Sometimes the world feels as if it’s too much, as if everything is coming at you and overtaking you, like you just need to hide and retreat from it all.
Cocoon yourself, Dear One. Wrap yourself tight so you feel sheltered and held, safe and secure. Nestled in quiet refuge.
Take all the time you need here. Feel all the feels, the uncertainty, the questions, the sadness, Allow it to wash over and through you.
And when you are ready, when you habe fully ruptured, when the darkness and pain have been transmuted, when you are through putting back the pieces, emerge again.
Brilliant and dazzling.
For it is from within those cracks that your light shines forth. A testament of your strength and love.
Truly beautifully said Melanie – thank you for sharing ♥️
Sending you so so much love and hugs dearest Leah and Don. I wish I could help you take the pain away- I know in my heart that you did the very best you could to help Emily …. Love from Desiree