For the last eight days, I have read comments to my article “Stop telling me how wrong I am!” I have read the emails sent to me in response to that article. I have listened to what people have told me when they see me in the store or talk to me on the phone. I have cried because of the heartless and cruel things that have been said to me. It doesn’t seem to matter what I want. It doesn’t seem to matter how much pain I’m in and how much more those comments have added to it. Every day, every single one of the last eight days, I have cried because of something said to me about my grief.

Today, I lay on the couch, wishing so hard to die, because the depression had taken such a hold on me. I cursed my body for breathing automatically, so that I couldn’t just stop. I thought this was another stage of grief I had to face, that I hadn’t been through yet. It seemed that this was the hardest stage of all. I felt so helpless, powerless, to do anything about it. I couldn’t reach out to anyone. I couldn’t even cry. I felt drained by this feeling of darkness that squeezed my heart so hard. I felt worthless, useless. Lost. And in pain so deep, it threatened to swallow me.

As I lay there, I wondered how I was to survive this stage. How I was to find a reason to want to even want to survive? I tried to will myself. But I couldn’t. It was as if I was dead inside, even though my body belied that fact.

I began to think of all the hurtful things said to me the last eight days. As I thought of each one, I felt something stir inside. I realized it was anger. I grabbed onto that emotion, as if I were grabbing a life ring. I let the anger grow, even though it has scared me in the past few weeks. As bad as I hate the anger, it’s better than feeling nothing.

Now, the rage has brought me here, to my keyboard. I feel, my fingers type. I realize that I have to get this out, or I will turn it inward again. I don’t like the anger. But I like the depression even less.

Here is some of what I’ve had to hear the last eight days.

“It doesn’t do you any good to talk about her.” (Forget your dead child, stop making me uncomfortable.)

I can’t forget her anymore than if she were alive.

“It’s O.K. to be angry, but don’t be mad too long, it’s not good for you.” (Be mad for a little while, but don’t get ridiculously mad.)

I’m mad at everything and everyone. I am FURIOUS at things that I wouldn’t even have noticed five months ago. I’m told by others that my anger is normal, but I still don’t like it. Especially when I see it get stronger every day. I just hope each day, that I can continue to control it, instead of letting it control me.

“You have to ‘get on with your life’.” (If you stop grieving and act normal, I’ll be relieved.)

What do you think I’m doing?! I wake up each day. I function through the day’s routine. Is that not going on with my life? If not, what is it? I’m certainly not dead.

“You need therapy for your depression.” (I don’t know what to tell you to stop your grief, so get help to get over it.)

Why do you think you have to help me? Why do I have to “get over it” within your time frame?

“Do something to distract yourself. You’ll feel better.” (If you find a hobby or something, I won’t have to listen to you cry about your daughter.)

Nothing, absolutely nothing, can distract me from the loss of my child. No more than you could be distracted from the loss of your right arm. She was as much a part of me, as your arm is a part of you.

Now, the “you should’s” have arrived.

I have so many people telling me how to grieve. Every day, it seems like someone is telling me I should be doing this or I shouldn’t be doing that. I want to ask them, “What gives you the right to say that to me? Did I ask you for your advice?!”

Why is it, people won’t hesitate to give you advice on a subject that no one wants to talk about? Few would speak out if they saw a child being mistreated in a store. Many would, and do, speak out when it comes to grief. In fact, they seem to make it their goal in life to get you to stop grieving as soon as possible, so they won’t have to hear your grief, see your tears and feel your pain. They won’t have to think to themselves, “That could be ME!”

Why can’t I just grieve in my own way? Why???

I’m supposed to “get on with my life.” Isn’t that what I’m doing?! I wake up each day. I function through the day’s routine. I work. I cook & clean. I take care of Adam. I talk to and visit my family. I do everything you do in your daily routine. Is that not going on with my life?

Am I not living because I don’t go on dates? Because I don’t smile and laugh all day long? Because I don’t go to parties or dances? Because I don’t go out to dinner and a movie? Because I don’t want to learn something new? Because I don’t want to set a big goal in life to work towards?

Am I not living because my heart is irretrievably broken? Because my arms ache to hold my child? Because my eyes can’t hold back the tears that come forth daily? Because I want my daughter back more than anything in the world? Because I love and miss her with all my heart? It is my pain that tells me every single minute of every single day, I am alive. I feel the hurting that being alive causes me. How can I be not living?

Because I’m not living “normally,” that’s why.

Because I’m not living “normally,” I’m considered to be grieving too long or too hard. If my child was still alive, would I be chastised for loving her too much and for this long? No! If my child was still alive, would I be told to forget her and not talk about her? No! If she were here, would I be told to not dream of a future with her, look at her pictures, or remember her? No! If she were alive, would I be told to not worry about her and cry if I missed her? No!

I don’t stop total strangers in the store and tell them, “Live your life as if there were no tomorrow. Grab your child and tell them they are the most important person in your life. Spend every spare second of your life with your child, because they may not be here tomorrow. Don’t take anything for granted. Not a single ‘I love you,’ not one hug. Play with your child. Listen to them when they talk to you. Have conversations with them. Learn about them. Encourage them. Be supportive. Help them in any way you can. Love them like their lives depended on it.” I don’t tell people that, even though I want to shout it to the world until everyone who has a child, hears and listens to me. Why I don’t tell them what’s in my heart? Simple.

Respect. I respect their right to live their life within their beliefs, needs, wants and feelings. Theirs. Not mine imposed upon them. Theirs.

Why can’t I get the same respect?

If you see yourself in any of the above, I want you to stop and please, think about what effect your words will have if you say them to someone like me. We do hear what you say. We do take it to heart. Your words can and do hurt, more than you’ll ever know.

We who have lost a child, balance precariously on a fine line between hanging on…and letting go. If you care, really care, don’t make us lose our fragile grip.

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