“Unable to perceive the shape of you, I find you all around me. Your presence fills my eyes with your love. It humbles my heart, for you are everywhere.” – an adaptation by Guillermo del Toro of a translation made by Priya Hemenway of an original poem by Hakim Sanai

Slight spoiler alert on the film

I tried to write this several times, falling apart every time I re-read the words above.  F and I had an evening with not much to do, and decided to watch this movie.  Innocent, right?  As you read last time, I am in an over-diligent mode all the time of what I do, where I go, etc. to try to minimize flashbacks, anxiety, and the flight or fight mechanism in my body.  Often, someone will tell me about an amazing new show.  I have to drill them of many details, mostly if there are guns killing people and are details are shown. Things like Game of Thrones, as violent as it is, weirdly I am ok with.  I think part of that is I started the series before Jesse and Bella died, so I know what to expect, and part is it is there are no guns. I have been thrown into a panic attack more than once watching a show.  My poor husband was introduced to the extent of that when we were dating with one of my favorite shows, Mr. Robot. I plug through it after the fact, because, man, it is a good show.  But, it takes me a while to recover. Often, when I think something is coming, I hide, asking F to let me know when it passes. I sadly miss out on a lot of things because of this. Other times, I sit there, my heart racing, paralyzed, not being able to communicate, or, being sick of having a reaction to everything, and just trying to work through it. It’s fun (sarcasm implied).

The other category is when a film or show has to do with the death of a child. I don’t think I need to go into that one.

So, when we decided on The Shape of Water, we both thought, this should be a safe bet. There were a few violent scenes, which I hid, but thought, yeah, this is an amazing film, it deserved to win.  And then the end scene came. It was overall a movie about love, which was portrayed uniquely and beautifully. As the scene at the end unfolds, the narrator read that poem.  I heard it. And then I felt it. I felt it in every cell of my body and heart.  I miss Bella all the time, but, the feeling of missing is a whole other thing. I don’t allow that often, as it is the thing that will undo me. When it pops in like that, catching me completely unaware, I feel like I am falling into a pit of despair, drowning in the tears springing forth from my eyes. I sobbed in F’s arms for I don’t know how long, saying over and over how much I missed my little girl. He held me tight, and as I thought it was ebbing, another round would come, my body seizing from the loss.  In moments like this especially, I go back and forth wondering, where are you? I go from wanting with all my heart to believe she is here with me, she is the butterfly, she is the sunset, she is the rainbow, reminding me, saying, mommy, it is ok. But then that is too hard sometimes, because it is that reminder that my little girl is not here, but “there” and I cannot hold her. Then I just think, she is gone, nothing left but the ashes on my bookshelf. We come, we go. If you met me five years ago, you would be astonished by that statement, I was very spiritual before they died, believing that we were a continuous spirit of sorts, our bodies just vessels. I honestly go back and forth from being an atheist to being spiritual depending on the day.

You have read time and time again how her grief takes my feet out from under me and my heart constricts with pain so great, I cannot breathe. My new therapist asked, as she should, whether I thought I was holding on to Bella’s grief and not processing it, wanting the pain to stay, holding on to that.  There was more to that, but that is the sum-ish of it. I thought, as I do, and replied a bit later, no. I don’t want this pain, it sucks. I am though, afraid of moving through and processing the reality of it. I am afraid I will be unrecognizable at the end. I am afraid a depression like no other will drape over me, unable to function, unable to take care and love the people who are here, unable to work. I am afraid that even if I were to be able to work through that, I would no longer be a person I liked, or a person people would want to be around. A hollow shell. I am afraid that I would give in to the pain and decide it was too much. I could go on, but knowing what I know about her grief, the pain, how I have just touched the surface, how could I go farther and still function. It is easier to keep it locked tight and deal with it as it surfaces. And focus what is there into advocacy, helping others. That being said, I know the repercussions all too well of not processing it. I see this everyday in my clinic. But I can’t. I just can’t.  I have been weeping on and off writing this. She was my sunshine full of love. A part of me died the day she did, a part any parent who has lost a child understands. I like to think that my heart breaking over and over again when I re-live that night, every time, a combination of my strength and all those who love me super glue the cracks so I can continue. So that I can continue to be here, to do the work I need and want to do to help prevent this from happening to another, to support those who this has happened to, and to be an inspiration for others.

My ray of sunshine full of pure love, and a bit of sass