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There Is A Time For Everything

September 23, 2015 by Cheryl Maloney

 Have you lost someone or something in your life?  Is your grief overwhelming and you feel like you’ll never get past it?  Are you willing to entertain the belief, just for a moment, that you will get past it? If you are then in that moment I’m going to ask you to just do one thing.  Recognize where you are is a just part of your journey.  You know in your heart that life goes on and so will you.

If you entertain the thought that your life will go on then you can also realize that right now might be the time you need to wallow in your sorrow. Your sorrow is as much a part of your life’s journey as being happy, excited, inspired or any more positive experience. Let it be what it is… part.

Not the whole, part.
Not the end, a view point.
When you tire of the view you can and will move on.

How do you move on?  Let your next step be about what you don’t do instead of what you do.  It’s somewhat easier that way. As someone who is learning to live again after Jack’s death here are something things I know if you’ll stop doing you’ll actually allow yourself to move beyond where you are now.

  • Stop focusing on your life without.  For example there is longevity in my family and when I really am in pain I think about living the next 30 years without Jack.  That’s a gut wrenching thought. If instead I shift my thoughts to having 36 great years with him the pain is less intense.
  • Stop listening to music that brings you down.  “See You Again” by Charlie Puth is a wonderful song that brings me to tears every time.  There is an attraction to feeling the pain of this loss but changing the station helps me more.
  • Stop spending time with your “misery loves company” friends or friends who want to talk about how great their life is.  Instead spend time with friends who make you laugh.

It’s easy to feel the pain.  It’s hard to make it stop.  It’s simple to choose something that feels just a little bit better and right now that is as good as it needs to be.

With love, Cheryl

 

What I Can Learn from a Dog’s Life?

September 14, 2015 by Janet Thomas

Fotolia_33562716_Subscription_Monthly_MI met a lovely little dog yesterday, and her name is Sophie. Sophie is 12 years old, deaf, and just as smart and sweet as can be. When her owner picked her up, Sophie seemed to melt into her arms. Sophie was so completely content and trusting in her owner’s actions, I could actually feel it.

I then learned that Sophie had a traumatic past. Her new owner actually rescued her from near euthanization just one year before. It was such a trip to me because without knowing about her past, it seemed like Sophie and her owner had been together forever, and that Sophie hadn’t experienced one second of fear or pain.

Actually, someone had told Sophie’s owner that it takes dogs six months to forget trauma. Whether or not that’s true, I love the way that idea sparks my imagination. Here’s what’s delicious about it to me – why can’t I (or can I?) be dog-like in that way? What if I gave myself six months to grieve/be pissed/hurt about my non-preferred experiences and then move on, healed, renewed and better than ever?

In my case, I was a pro at holding on to resentment and hurt. After experiencing my own trauma as a little one, I held on to it for decades. I kept all of it secret, and my pain jumped from back burner to front burner at different times, but it always stayed with me.

I used to think that if I started to cry, I’d never stop because my pain was so deep. To me tears equaled death. However, once my choice became face the pain or die (yes, I went to the cliff’s edge), facing my pain didn’t kill me, it ultimately freed me! By facing it, I mean safely releasing my anger and hurt (with harm to none, including myself) without judgment.

It felt like I found the formula to release hurt and reconnect with my good feelings (and, by the way, this formula isn’t new, nor is it a secret). I use this formula all the time. Sometimes I “get over it” very quickly, especially when it’s a minor annoyance. And even when I give myself six months (or however much time I think I need) to get over the bigger hurts, invariably I move through them more quickly.

One time I was particularly heartbroken and I allowed my pain to just be. It was simmering inside of me. I let myself feel it without judgment. I felt a pang in my heart for months. Then one day it just bubbled to the surface. I was driving my car, and the song “Since I Fell for You” came on, and my feelings came to a head.

It felt like a dagger pierced my heart. I started crying. And crying. Then I stopped crying. And then I started crying again. I played that one song over and over again whenever I was in my car. Sometimes I would scream, other times I would cry, talk aloud and even laugh. Whatever my emotions needed to express, I let them out safely. I was “in it,” if that makes sense.

I played that one song for about a week. I immersed myself in it and just let my emotions out. All of them that had something to say – about my heartbreak, him, myself, and whatever else – got their turn.

I could literally feel the cloud over my heart lifting. My pain was diminishing and I started to feel a sense of lightness again, or perhaps I lightened up first, which, in turn, soothed my pain. Whatever it was, it happened gently and naturally. My emotions simmered down around my breakup and pretty much went away for good.

I didn’t need to play the song over and over anymore. Actually, I got sick of it. I was done grieving! From that moment on, whenever I think about that breakup, it is now simply a fact. It was an event that had occurred in my life, and now without pain attached to. Actually I was (and am) very grateful for the relationship. I keep with me what I learned, liked and disliked about it, and I continue to let it teach me more about myself. It is very, very cool.

Something tells me I’m not alone when it comes to holding on to painful experiences. Suffice to say, to transform it in six months or less for me means immersing myself in the pain (emotionally speaking) until it naturally heals. I’d still live my life while doing it. I’d still work every day, enjoy my family and friends, and allow my feelings to ebb and flow without judgment and with harm to none, including myself. I would acknowledge and embrace my unfulfilled expectations, and that’s how I break (what feels like) a spell of sadness that I’m under.

Now, when it comes to smart, sweet and trusting little Sophie and those six months, I read that because dogs totally live in the moment they don’t remember past trauma unless something happens that triggers it. I’m thinking that perhaps Sophie’s current environment is so peaceful that she is just completely chilled out. There’s no longer fear and pain, just love.

If only it were that simple for humans – to have a peaceful and trigger-less environment in order to forget all the pain. My experience is that it doesn’t happen that way… I used to find triggers regardless, even if they were only in my mind and I’d relive painful experiences over and over again.

But what if we allowed ourselves to feel the pain with the intention of getting through it rather than avoiding, judging or trying to ignore it? Why not embrace hurt and sadness, giving them some attention just as we would a more pleasant and likable aspect of ourselves? After all, they do coexist. We can feel pain alongside joy, curiosity, etc.

What if you face your pain and tell yourself the truth about how you feel about it with harm to none, including yourself? What if your triggers only summoned the memory of the event with no pain attached to it? I believe it is possible for you, and possible to live each moment, having been enriched by all of your non-preferred experiences.

At all times, I wish you Sophie’s unwavering contentment and love!

Getting Through Overwhelming Grief

August 30, 2015 by Cheryl Maloney

 If you’ve ever suffered the loss of a loved then you understand that there are times when getting out of bed or up off of the floor seem impossible.  It doesn’t matter if it’s a day after their passing or months later grief takes over and there seems to be absolutely nothing you can do about it.  What you’re experiencing is not only natural, but in my opinion, a necessary part of healing. That doesn’t mean however it’s easy.

Easy isn’t word in my vocabulary when it comes to my grief.  Grief comes in waves. Sometimes it’s a gentle ache and other times it knocks me to the ground, literally, and I find myself sobbing in a corner of the room.

I use to tell myself that I needed to be strong.  I am alone now and Jack isn’t physically here to help me through this.  Not long after his death, in the middle of a crying jag, I realized that feeling this pain was an important part of the healing process.  After all how could I pretend to be strong when I was standing alone for the first time in decades?

We have the right to feel every moment and the very depth of our grief.  Losing the love of your life, a child, a parent or a best friend, irrevocably changes your life.  They are no longer a part of what you’ll experience from this point forward and that hole in your heart if huge.  The key however is in recognizing all of that.

Rather than trying to buck up and be strong I tell myself, as my tears flow, that I need to have this experience.  I need to feel the grief to its fullest.  Yes, it drains me and yes, I come through it feeling down and blue… but I come through it and so will you. It’s when we fight it or berate ourselves for being overwhelmed by it that our energy gets tied up in feeling bad about ourselves instead of feeling bad because our loved one died.   Can you see the difference?

Grieving has everything to do with the loss.  That is natural and honest and necessary.  Berating ourselves is a choice and one that is unnecessary and hurts us even more.

So when you are on the floor next time say to yourself, “I need to feel every part of my grief.”  Let the tears flow and the pain overwhelm you.  As it starts to abate, even just a little, remind yourself that this is all part of your healing and a natural part of life.  You will get through it… as you need to for you.

With love, Cheryl

Filling The Void

May 25, 2015 by Cheryl Maloney

Fotolia_81889275_Subscription_Monthly_MThe hardest thing for me since Jack died is coming home to an empty house.  It’s not that I dread it. This is the last place we shared.  It’s the emptiness I feel driving home.   And while my cats may greet me when I arrive I know it’s only because they want their treats.  Needless to say it doesn’t compare to coming home to Jack.

I’ve had people already tell me not to worry that I’ll find someone else.  The first few times I heard that it really ticked me off.  Don’t they understand that I have no desire to replace the love of your life?!?  Then I realized their advice was a reflection of their own fears.  I now say a silent prayer for them and change the subject.

Still there is a void in my life that is as vast as my love for Jack.  One of my favorite songs these days is “One Hell of an Amen” by Brantley Gilbert. While it always brings tears to my eyes it reminds me of Jack’s strength to the very end.  It came on the radio when I was driving home on Friday and at that moment it hit me that I wasn’t “fighting the good fight” and I have probably many years to live.  For me, for my life “fighting the good fight” is a metaphor.  It’s not about struggling… it’s about living life to the fullest.  I can focus on the void or I can fill it with love.  Love for myself, love for others, love for whatever brings me joy and happiness.

Climbing out of the chasm created by Jack’s death is far from easy.  Sometimes I’m going to slip and other times I may fall but I’m going to keep taking it one (simple) step at a time, fighting the good fight to keep my own sanity. And that will be my “One Hell of an Amen.”

“An’ that’s One Hell of an Amen
That’s the only way to go
Fightin’ the good fight
Til the Good Lord calls you home
So be well my friend
Til’ I see you again
Yeah this is our last goodbye
But it’s a Hell of an Amen”
– Brantley Keith Gilbert

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