I didn’t want to ask for help. Actually, I didn’t think asking for help was an option. I lost my dad when I was 19 and didn’t grieve until 10 years later. I didn’t know how to grieve and didn’t realize that it’s a personal process that everyone goes about in their own way. For me, that process was to keep moving forward and not stop. The minute I’d stopped was the minute I would have to acknowledge and accept this eternal truth: My father’s physical presence on this earth was done.
The thing about grief, or any emotion that is attempting to be suppressed, is that it manifests itself in ways that can’t be controlled. When my friends and I would go out for drinks, they would brace themselves if they saw me and Jagermeister having a reunion. I would spit venom when they tried to help me, the anger masking the overwhelming well of sadness that was only allowed up when I was drunk. Alcohol had this brilliant way of exposing me while keeping me detached. It felt good until it didn’t. The hangovers became next level and more painful than the actual pain I was trying to dodge. The juice was no longer worth the squeeze. I acknowledged and accepted this eternal truth: Jager and I were done.
When my sister passed there was no moving forward. I could not carry the weight of that loss on my own. My sister’s death demanded a version of myself I didn’t know was possible. I went to therapy, I started writing more, I got deeper into my yoga practice, I got curious about my life and what I could offer the world. I got so much help, the help I needed to turn my pain into promise. What I didn’t realize about seeking support was I was still required to do the work. No one could do that for me. The therapists, coaches, teachers offered their wisdom, guidance, ideas, knowledge and being soundboards that helped me take a mirror to my own life. Investing in them was investing in myself and I had to be the one to implement and execute.
I acknowledged and accepted this eternal truth: I am a forever student, nowhere near being done.
