Good Mourning... Unpacking Grief & Trauma

Today is my mother's birthday. She would have been 54 today. Her birthdays are usually tough... tougher than holidays or oddly enough,  Mother's Day. The first birthday that I had to celebrate without her was the roughest yet. I can recall attempting to hold it together, all while teetering on the verge of a nervous breakdown. Salty tears fell like missiles. The heaviness of it all felt like a game of tug of war. Would I allow the grief to present itself freely? Would I continue fighting to be "strong?" Tears were withheld... my breath was calculated and controlled. I was afraid that IF I completely exhaled, the floodgates would open and I would have to accept that my mother was no longer here... that I would no longer feel the touch of her hands... the warmth of her hugs. I remember being afraid of forgetting the sound of her voice. Birthdays were and still remain difficult.

The death of my mother was traumatic. I never got a chance to say goodbye. She fought a three year battle with breast cancer. She was in remission. Things were well...  then all of a sudden they were not. I'll never forget receiving that phone call from my stepfather. "You need to come home." Even though he said that all was well, my gut said differently. Days had passed since I had spoken with my mother, which was odd. My mother and I spoke every day... every morning... at the same time... right after I would drop off my then five year old, Jax, to kindergarten. Her and I would begin our morning talks on my drive back home from Jax's school. These talks would last well past the commute and would oftentimes, conclude while sitting in the parking lot of either my home or some nearby grocery store. Eventually we would hang up from each other and continue on with our day, only to resume the conversation hours later. THIS was OUR routine... OUR mother/daughter song and dance. Needless to say, when this dance was interrupted, I knew that something was wrong. My father had began answering her phone. Phone calls went unreturned. Everything within me said that something was wrong. Perhaps it was a defense mechanism that prohibited my listening. I didn't want to listen. After all, my dad said that everything was ok... even after saying, "you need to come home."

Everything would not be ok when I returned home. I found my mother bed ridden... unable to speak. Hospice was there. Cancer had spread throughout her body and even worst... to her brain. The conversations that any child would want to have with their dying parent, I was unable to have. I remember telling her repeatedly that I loved her. She would muster every bit of strength just to mumble a reply back, "I know." Perhaps I was annoying her... Truthfully, I know that my mother knew that I loved her. I told her everyday. I honestly, thought that her knowing that I loved her would be enough to tackle the grief... sustain the mourning. It wasn't. No amount of days of my mother being alive on this earth could cover the grief that I would feel. No amount of "I love you's" could hold back the tears that would flow in the coming days, months, or even years to follow. Although I temporarily relied on the fact that she knew the depth of my love for her, that knowledge could not shield me from the PTSD to be triggered from the trauma caused from her passing... from the shock of abruptly losing her. The way that I lost her was traumatic. I didn't see her take her last breath. I flew back home to Los Angeles before she passed away. I remember telling my father that I would be back when... I Couldn't finish the sentence. Truthfully, I didn't know when I would be back. Although all signs pointed to my mother passing away, I wouldn't allow the thought of it to permeate. This wasn't real. I refused to allow it to be real. In retrospect, If I had allowed the thought of losing her to sink in at that moment, I would have collapsed from the heaviness. The reality of it all wouldn't set in until months later. At times, Jon would return home from work, only to find me on the bathroom floor... sobbing... the weight of it all, so heavy. It felt as if I were physically pinned down by the grief itself. 

I remember being angry... angry with my father for not telling me until it was too late... angry with myself for refusing to listen to my intuition... angry with my mother for not communicating that she was once again sick and that this time it would take her over.  It wasn't until I was pregnant with Jedi, that I was finally able to release that anger, and most importantly, the need to understand why she would hold something so devastating from my sister and I. The resolution being that no matter how strong my mother was, she couldn't bring herself to say goodbye to her daughters.  For her, having to say goodbye was much to great of an action. I have learned to find compassion in that... something of which I will never fully understand. I have learned to continue to have compassion for myself anytime a trigger resounds and reminds me of losing my mother. I must remember to breathe whenever the tears fall, knowing that they will appear and disappear... and thats ok. A wise woman once told me that although the weight of grief and mourning will never go away completely,  the baggage of it all eventually becomes lighter. Here's to the unpacking...

Dame

I had a dream that one day my beauty products wouldn't lie to me. Tell me that my skin would be moisturized, glowing, and flawless IF I just used this here jar for four to six weeks.
I had a dream that big named companies were the ones that never compromised safety and health over those willing to pay (sacrificing their health) to cut corners.

I had a dream that my lust for fragrant petals & creamy balms wouldn't lead me to a cancerous death.  A dream that one day I could trust in the wisdom of the earth and make use of the various botanicals available to take care of my skin just the way mother nature intended me to... That one day I would be able to build my own body scrubs with exotic salts, vibrant fruit powders, petals and wild harvested oils (oh my), that worked best for my skin! AND my skin would be smoother than ever before. My skin would reveal her true natural glow for all to see and feel! I had a dream that every woman knew just how special she was. That the light in her eyes had birthed nations for ions. Her body was more powerful than she knew. That it was important that her body be nurtured and given all the care, like only she could. That she knew her body belonged to only her... That when she was happy, she was the prettiest girl in the room. She was a magnificent radiant being of light, whose skin glowed to the heavens. 

I address her as MaDAME out of respect.
When I awoke, I realized the day was today.

That was my dream 5 years ago. Just months prior, I was living on my own, working, and dating my high school sweetheart. I thought I was living my dream. Then I discovered I was pregnant. And the man whom I'd known since I was 14 wanted nothing to do with a baby. He insisted that while I could afford a baby, he wasn't in a position to. That it would ruin his life, his music career. It would ruin our lives. “How could I suddenly love someone I didn't know yet more than I loved him,” he said. I grew up with both parents in the home. Well my Jewish step-father had been in my life since I was 8 months old. He was only 21 when he met my mother and immediately loved me as his very own. My mother always told me to listen to a man when he tells you what he wants. And the only thing I did know was that I didn't want to be a single mother. I had watched my sister and friends raise their children single handedly until they were delusional from the lack of sleep. I was 26, yet everyone around offered their opinions of how I was too young to have a baby. My mother and I were estranged at the time. When I called her to tell her the news, she simply wished me good luck and told me I had better to not tell my father. 

So I did it. I had an abortion. I “took care of it" sobbing the whole way through. The nurse asked me if I wanted to stop and yet I allowed them to continue. I learned I could be firm in my decision, and still hate myself for doing so at the same time.

Weeks after, I took a new lease on life. I began doing all the things I was afraid to do and seemed appropriate to do while I wasn't a mother with children to raise. I shaved my hair, threw out all my toxic skin care products, lost 30 lbs, and started my own company with the funding I earned traveling all over the world for my current employer. I opened 12 restaurants in less than 2 years. I drowned myself in work and tried to maximize my days... The guilt rears it's head from time to time. It took years to not silently condemn myself and know that I am enough. That God has continued to bless and guide me. With our current state of the world, I can't imagine a life where young women are denied the right to choose. 

I recently wrote a letter to myself during this last full moon that I carry around in my wallet as part of my healing process.

Love Notes to Me:

You anxiously awaited the arrival of the full moon but you didn't expect for it to be this emotional, this tricky. The trick is how to make it about loving yourself. The trick is how to make it about encouraging yourself. The trick is how to make it about getting to know another aspect of yourself.
Many important people will come. And go. And stay. And leave. And It's okay to feel. But the real romance is yours. The real relationship is about you coming into a deeper understanding of yourself.
A deeper knowing of your strength.
A deeper respect for your resilience.
A deeper appreciation of your abilities.
You have given your best effort consistently and therefore have every right to feel proud of yourself.
No matter the current shape of things. No matter the status of the situation right now.
This week has reminded you of a limit you are working within. It might remind you of the weight of the decisions that you have to make. Where you stand today might have you feeling a little burdened with your current circumstances.
But where you stand could also have you quietly celebrating the fact that you are living up to your own standards.
The healing comes from listening.
The healing comes from finding a way to get across what you might not yet know how to put into words.
The healing comes from letting your actions do the explaining.
And the mending.
And the rebuilding.
Healing comes from giving each day your best effort.
Your sincerity.
Your honesty.
You got this Dame.

My Body Is Mine

When I was in sixth grade, I wanted to look like "Michelle." (Let's call her that for identity sake) She was the light skin girl with hazel eyes. She had reached puberty eons before either myself or the other little girls in our classroom. We all bowed at the throne of this girl. All the boys liked her. All the girls wanted to look like her, including myself. I remember looking down at my shirt, wanting boobs to magically appear and my body to change. I was short and lanky and dark skinned with dark eyes. Growing up, I personally liked my dark skin. However, it wasn't always celebrated. My dark skin, nose, and crooked smile were all a reminder of my biological father. Perhaps a painful reminder to those whom he had been affected by his violence and abuse. As a child, I looked more like him, than my mother.

I remember telling my mother, that I wanted my body to look like "Michelle's" body. I wanted to have hips and butt and boobs. She reminded me that I was in sixth grade, and that I had MY body. She said that my body would change and blossom into this womanly form that possessed curves resembling my mother, and her mother before her. I waited. My body changed. However, it remained lanky and short. Truthfully, to this day, I don't have hips and butt and curves for days. It simply is what it is.

When I contemplated doing this shoot, I returned to that 6th grade girl. What if all the women present were shaped differently than I? They were. What if, I was the only one with stretch marks on my belly and thighs? I wasn't. Prior to the shoot, I contemplated nursing while being photographed. I thought to myself, 'I will be ok nude, if I am breastfeeding, and hiding my insecurity behind my motherhood.' Was it possible for me to stand in my own womanhood, without a babe attached to my breast? Could I stand in this skin, alone? This body was carrying years of both self inflicted and environmental body shaming? It needed to stop. The fear and negative voices needed to stop. 

At the shoot, I stood with a blanket wrapped around me. Afraid to remove it. These women were beautiful. Their bodies perfect. As I continued to stand there (still with the blanket wrapped around my body), I saw these beautiful women laughing and embracing each other, as if they were clothed in diamonds. They turned to me and beckoned for me to join. I briefly tried to find a place where I fit... They quickly made room for me. They held space for me. Perhaps, they were on the same journey of reconnecting with their bodies? Perhaps they had been there before... For me, I wasn't quite sure when this insecurity began... But, I knew now is when it would end. 

My Self Care IS Activism

I am grateful. I am grateful for family and friends. I am grateful for healthy relationships and the ability to stay clear from toxicity. I am grateful for my home. I think it's clear… that there is a lot to be grateful for. However, yesterday as we gathered with loved ones, I couldn't help but feel heaviness. I felt heaviness that as we ate, Native Americans are still disrespected, tossed to the side, and stolen from. I felt heaviness that just a few weeks prior, our country elected a man that has disrespected people of color, the disabled, muslims, women, and the lbgt community. I felt heaviness for the families of Chattanooga, TN who lost their babes just a couple of days ago in a horrific bus crash. With that being said, there is a lot of healing that needs to take place. There is a lot of self care that needs to take place. However, how do we implement self care and self celebration in the midst of chaos? How do we stay inspired in the midst of personal and/or public calamity?

I truly believe that self care is a form of activism. To stand up in the midst of someone’s hate, and scream, “I am enough," is not only a form of activism, but self care. Self care isn't just taking a long bath; although pausing for self is necessary. Self care is decorating a poster and marching through the streets while affirming that black lives really do matter… because they do. Self care is not buying into the hype of Black Friday… opting out of standing in long lines to buy more stuff. Your worth is not in getting more stuff.

Self care is speaking the truth… your truth… because it is necessary. After the election, I was greeted via social media by people asking me to validate my frustration on racism and the election results. I spoke even louder. This blatant election of bigotry over unification spoke volumes. It should have rang loudly to those who had been in a deep slumber regarding racism in this country. Using your voice on whatever platform that you may have is a form of self celebration. When you use your voice to speak on things that matter, you proclaim your worth. When you use your privilege to influence others to change, you celebrate the fact that your words have power and value. They are not empty. 

Lastly, sometimes staying inspired, involves simply unplugging. No television, no electronics, just the sound of your breath and the wind blowing through the trees. These moments are necessary. I have found that when I take time to “unplug from the matrix,” I am able to return, revitalized and ready to speak, protest, and engage in much needed discussions. Reminding myself that in spite of the chaos, hate, and crazy, I am worthy and important. 

Mothering... A Journey Of Healing Through Grief

It is never easy to lose a parent at an early age. Honestly, It is never easy for anyone to lose a parent no matter what the age. I was twenty-three when my mother passed from Cancer. Twenty-three with a three-year-old daughter. My mother, Kimberly, and I were always super close. She was my very first best friend. When I had my daughter, it seemed as though our relationship reached a whole new level. We now had motherhood in common... something more to share. My mom was the first person who saw the face of my daughter. Yes, even before me (I fell asleep on the table, that medicine was serious). I loved the relationship my daughter shared with my mom. Whenever we would come to visit from Tennessee, if you saw Kim you saw Chasi. Their relationship was really starting to bloom. My mom was teaching my daughter and I. Kim taught me so much about motherhood, womanhood, being a wife, and a successful woman. As a mother, always keep an open line of communication with your children. As a woman, don’t take crap from anybody and maintain sexy at all times. Maintaining a healthy marriage was important.  As a successful woman, business is business and you better handle yours if you want to eat. We had an absolutely wonderful relationship.

    So on July 10, 2012 when I found out that my mother had passed away, many emotions filled by body. I found myself in the days leading up to the funeral in a straight haze.  At this point, I was pretty much numb. During the funeral Greg, my biological father (aka my sperm donor) thought it would be a wonderful idea for him and his sisters to show up 21 years later to try to make amends. FYI, I let them know that they "tried my life" to the 10th degree. The days after the funeral, I found myself growing angry. I was mad! Mad at life, mad at family members, and honestly I was mad at my mom. She left me. Growing up my parents never wanted to tell my siblings and I bad news (or that somebody died) especially at night time. I guess they didn’t want us to dream about it or something. They would wait until the morning to tell us. I felt as though my parents still were trying to treat us like those little girls. I felt as though my parents knew more than they let on about the Cancer and it spreading throughout my mom’s body. So when she died, I felt blindsided. I felt as though those last 4 weeks were taken from me. I was pissed. I already don't have the best attitude when it comes to bull$@!&, and it went to a whole different level. I no longer cared. If you were somebody’s mother or grandmother try me if you want to. Anybody could get it! Straight up! Let’s just say that the "alternate personality" my mom use to encourage me to never reveal was in full effect. She always knew what was up, if I was provoked. My mom knew the real Cecili, and loved every part of me. 

    It’s been four years since my mommy passed away.  I am no longer mad at life. Trust me it took time. It has been hard not having my mom around, especially since I am a mother to a now seven-year-old kid. I do get upset when I think about the phone calls I can no longer make or the pictures and videos I can no longer send. I still feel like those last few weeks were stolen. However, with time, I had to realize my mom didn’t leave me willingly or purposely. I had to realize she didn’t leave this earth mad, so I better not live on this earth mad. I had to realize that she left me with great wisdom, love, and gratitude. I know my mom is putting in some major keys up there to God on my behalf. Everyday I see more of her in me. I am slowly morphing into her. I hear her when I pray with Chasi on the way to school, I even hear her when my boyfriend speaks. That woman is still everywhere. It’s amazing. 

    It doesn’t get easier, but it does get manageable. My suggestion to anyone dealing with the passing of a loved one allow yourself to grieve in your own way. Allow yourself to be mad, cry, scream, and shout. Whatever you need to do to get out your frustration do it. It’s normal and natural. With your grief however, allow yourself to heal and Go On. Unfortunately, life is not going to pause around you. Enjoy it because clearly nothing is promised. And as Kimberly would say, “Be the best you, you can be”.