At 8:05 this morning I boarded an airplane and traveled a great distance in order to attend a workshop about using artistic creativity for dealing with grief. My intended goal for this exercise was threefold:
1. Deal with the grief I have held deeply for many years about my children, the difficulties they have that I cannot fix, and the lost dreams I once had for them.
2. Learn the program well enough to offer it at home to other parents of children with special needs.
3. Develop a similar program that I could offer to seniors in assisted living facilities.
Within the first ten minutes of the first session, I became painfully aware that this was going to be more about my own struggles with grieving than I had planned. Tears rolled down my cheeks as our leader told us his story and how the program came to exist. As each participant told the intimate group his or her own reasons for participating, the tears kept coming. There was a lot of pain in the room, and it seemed to grow within my chest as each person exposed their wounds.
As the last person to speak, I found myself crying before I could think of anything to say. Without saying a word, I knew that the pain that has been kept inside for more than eight years was about to come out like a thunderstorm, and I couldn't stop it. In the past, I only allowed myself to cry occasionally, and then only for a few minutes, never acknowledging that I felt helpless.
For the rest of the evening, tears continued to roll down my face as we talked. They continued as I walked through the purple glow of early night back to my hotel, climbed the stairs to the third floor, and opened the door to my room. There I sobbed until my eyes burned and my head throbbed. Then I looked in the mirror and said to myself,
"I sure as hell am not wearing mascara to tomorrow's session."
My sustenance for the day has been caffeine, a Fiber One bar, a V8 and 7 ibuprofen tablets (not all at the same time). No wonder I've been crying hysterically.
Why am I here again?
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