Body Grief

Sometime about a year or so ago, I decided to pay closer attention to my body. Not for reasons of appearance, but more about reconnecting to my body in ways that honors and appreciates all that it has been for me. I fooled myself thinking that I could reconnect with my body by remembering only the good things, the positive things.

But Grief demanded my attention. 

Grief said to my positive memories: Me first. I don't blame her. I've been shoving my body grief down deep within me, in hopes that it would disappear in a black hole or somehow filter out with no pain or process. That never works. Like, ever.

Grief needs to be felt and heard. She needs me to see her.

It hurts for me to look so I've been ignoring her all this time.

When I was born, I was born into a muted world. My fingers itch to tell you that I was OK, everything was OK, there is nothing special about any of it and I can do anything I want, thankyouverymuch do not show sympathy for me because not only do I not need it, I do not deserve it. 

*Deep Breath*

Grief is trying to say something but it's hard for her to get a word in edgewise with all my words and caveats and comparisons and I'mfines. 

Here is what Grief says if I give her a chance to speak...

I was born into a muted world. 

So I will never hear music like most of you do. If I could hear, I think I may have been a composer. I love hearing a violin sing above the orchestra, a small stringed instrument with the power to soar above the crowd. If I could hear, I might have been a singer/songwriter playing the guitar and trying her best to put the world's emotions to music. I may have had an outlet for my own emotions, one that was as easy as humming a perfectly placed tune. What would it be like to open my mouth and have music come out?

If I could hear, I could sing in church with my full voice instead of lip-synching. I can't remember when it was that I first understood that "make a joyful noise" was actually not suitable for worship. No, sorry, you are distracting with your imperfections. So I made myself quiet. To this day I do not sing out loud in church. Those who were so sad when the coronavirus took away their ability to sing in church, well, it kind of made me sad in a mad way, or mad in a sad way. I haven't been singing for years.

If I could hear, I could catch all the little witty sayings in the movies, and laugh at the same time as everyone else without feeling like I was annoying someone by asking them what was so funny. "What did I miss?" Those who love me tell me, the rest will say something like "never-mind, it's no big deal." But they don't know that half my life was never-minded, and I was deemed unworthy of deciding for myself if something was a "big deal" or not. I still have the experience of watching an old movie from childhood "for the first time" because they have captions now. I keep learning how much I missed the first time around.

If I could hear, I could discern the music playing at the restaurant and enjoy it like you do. I could burst out with the song lyrics that you know, just from hearing it on the radio. I wouldn't have had to memorize the lyric sheets from old tapes and CDs. I might know more than just the chorus of famous songs. 

If I could hear, I could understand your whispers. I would be included in every aspect of life that includes whispering, most of them funny, many intimate. I can't hear or understand whispers, so I either throw the game of telephone into hilarity, or I just simply miss the moment. So many missed moments.

If I could hear, maybe I would have been cooler as a kid, maybe I would have understood more jokes and hidden meanings muttered under our breaths. Maybe I could have been in on whatever scheme or inside joke was running around. Maybe I would have caught all the innuendo or pop-culture references. 

If I could hear, I would hear my children wake at night, and instead of going to their Dad, they would come to me. If I could hear, would they feel more connected to me? Would they feel like they could depend on me more? 

If I could hear, I could get a good nights sleep when I am alone, without worrying about whether something bad would happen the moment I took my hearing aids out, that I would miss a child crying, a door creaking, an alarm going off, a dog whining. 

If I could hear, I could save money to go on more trips instead of buying hearing aids. 

If I could hear I wouldn't know what it was like to sit at a table and not be able to join the conversation because it was too hard to focus on reading lips that long, or across that many faces. I wouldn't have to choose only one conversation to focus on and hope it held my attention or that I would be included for the totality of it. If I could hear, I wouldn't have to work so hard at the easy things like having a conversation. Maybe being around people, ones I care about, wouldn't exhaust me.

If I could hear, maybe I would feel more easily connected to new people. Maybe I wouldn't be so isolated. Maybe I would feel like less of an outsider, in every group, every space. 

If I could hear, I wouldn't have worried as a teenager about a boy kissing me and then being horrified that my hearing aids would squeal with feedback if he touches my ear. Maybe that's why I didn't have my first kiss until college. 

If I could hear, maybe I wouldn't have been so awkward and anxious at pool parties and going to the beach with friends, when I had to make sure no one got my hearing aids wet, because even my best friend would forget and playfully push me in the pool with my hearing aids in. If I could hear, maybe when I take my kids to the neighborhood pool I could actually talk to other parents AND play with my kids, instead of having to choose between the two because I can't get my hearing aids wet. 

If I could hear, maybe I wouldn't be so angry when people shushed me, because I wouldn't have spent an unbelievable amount of energy listening to what *they* had to say. 

If I could hear, I wouldn't be paranoid about remembering to bring batteries with me everywhere in case a battery went out and I suddenly can't hear out of one ear, our God forbid both (it happens more often than I care to admit).

If I could hear, perhaps waiting rooms, airports, public transit, and other places where it is important to hear announcements, even your name, wouldn't be so tiring and taxing. I wouldn't have to be the equivalent of a night guard, always awake, always alert. Maybe this is why I sleep so heavily at night, because once I don't have to work so hard at hearing, I can finally fully relax.

I honestly don't know what would be different about myself or my life if I could hear. I'm not really trying to figure that out definitively, mostly because it's impossible to do that. I want to give myself space to recognize what was, and what is. I didn't allow myself to grieve whatever losses I had, because I was so busy trying to change it, or ignore it. Or minimizing it by saying itsfineitsOKitsnotabigdeal. (I'm trying very hard not to do this now.)

I want to relax into what is, and the best way I know how to do that is to grieve what isn't, and then move forward. 

I grieve that things weren't easy, and by doing that simple act, I'm giving myself permission to name that things weren't easy. Just because I am finethankyouverymuch, doesn't mean that it wasn't hard, or that it isn't still challenging. Giving myself permission to see that is a revelation in itself. It allows me to accept help, without shame even! 

Naming the challenges hopefully will allow me to appreciate myself, my supports, and give myself grace and care when I need it. Hopefully I will be more realistic about my capabilities, my needs, and the limits of my energy. Weirdly, by acknowledging my limitations, I will free myself to be at ease with who I am. I won't be actively trying to mask my limitations, to go into overdrive to prove I can do something I shouldn't. Freeing indeed!

I grieve the hearing I never had. I think somewhere deep down inside I thought that I could somehow adjust, compensate, focus hard enough to make up for the loss. I can't do that. The loss will always remain, no matter how hard I work. I need to stop expecting myself to be "normal" and allow myself to be me. This is actually kind of revolutionary for me, and I still struggle to do that.

I Grieve, therefore I can be. I wonder what unprocessed grief you have that keeps you from being. I won't tell you it's easy to let your grief speak, but it is good.