She called me crying. A dear friend who lives far away wanted to invite me into her grief: her third miscarriage. The joy of her first child opened up room in her heart and home to welcome a second, but her body struggled to hold it. One baby latched, grew, and left; the second baby latched, grew, and left; and now a third. I was heart broken for her. Miscarriage is common, but often not spoken of. Women courageously carry this pain silently. I have been told that often when they do finally become pregnant again, they hold back their joy just in case. Just in case this baby leaves too. It was an honor that my friend broke her silence to me, she let me in so that we could share our grief together. Little did I know how quickly our shared grief would become our shared joy.
Although I myself have never miscarried, I knew the grief in my beloved friend's tears all too well. Unwanted loss was also a part of my story. When I told my family about the incest abuse, I was given a number of options: (1) forgive him but continue to be in relationship with him, (2) don't speak of it again and still participate in the family system, or (3) be in relationship with us and not him, but we'll give him the benefit of the doubt. At first I chose none of these options and lost them, lost all of them. After them, I lost the Church, I lost my job, I lost my home, and eventually I lost my mind. Everything needed to be deconstructed; everything needed to be reconstructed once again. My grief laid heavy on my chest. It literally weighed me down.
I remember those years moving awfully slowly. Carrying so much pain around all the time, I was exhausted all days. I cried myself to sleep each night, attempting to relieve the gross amount of pressure being held within my chest. Even though he was abusive, I still loved him. Even though they believed him over me, I still loved them. Even though the Church refused to acknowledge women's leadership and power, I still wanted to belong to it. Even though my ministry position was being taken away because of a loss of Catholic identity, it was still my only source of support. Even though my mind did its best to endure years of abuse, at some point it had to let go.
My experience has taught me that the stages of grief are most certainly accurate: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. However, they are not linear steps to be conquered one-by-one. Instead, I held all of them all of the time; I felt all of them all at once. In and out of therapy, I did my best to acknowledge the years that I spent denying the abuse, the rage that I felt for the state of my life and other women in the world, the incessant internal arguing to try and fix it, the hopeless depression that kept me from actually doing so, and finally the acceptance that it was what it was and I hoped it would never be again. I needed to let them go: my father, my family, my church, my mission, so that I could regain my mind, but I didn't know how. And then I received a second phone call.
She called me again crying. This same beloved friend, but this time it was to invite me into her joy. She is pregnant and I am proud. Proud that she fearlessly invited me into her grief, proud that she courageously welcomed me into her joy. She taught me in this moment, this precious phone call, how to let go and how to say yes simultaneously. Let go of all of the grief of the loss of the past, so that I could finally allow the joy of the present to latch inside me.
She expressed to me her own hesitancy in letting go. She feared that if she did so, it would make the loss of the first three miscarriages OK. Eventually she came to understand that the loss would never be OK, but that she would be. She could move forward, she could accept this new life and let it grow within her, even at the risk of losing it all again. She would still be OK.
Like women who have miscarried, sexual abuse victims often hold onto their stories and the grief that accompanies them silently. I share my grief to be brave like my friend who taught me to break the silence. I understand now that what happened to me will never be OK, but that I finally am. I am OK, so I can let go. I admit, however, that I am still holding back my joy. I am so afraid to gain everything that I have ever wanted only to lose it all again. Also, my happy ending isn't as happy as I would've liked it to have been.Â
I dreamed of a day when my energy would be consistent, when my stomach would be strong, and when my mind would be steady. I thought at the end of my healing process, everything would be perfect: my health restored, my future clear, my identity confident. But my energy is everywhere, my stomach sensitive, my mind confused, my future bleary, and my identity shifting. I am learning that sometimes a part of grieving is accepting that what I once had or always wanted, I will never in fact have. That some women, no matter how much they want to birth their own child or no matter how much they want to make a full recovery from sexual abuse, will never get the opportunity to do so. But I'm still OK the way that I am, we are still OK the way that we are. I can still live a fulfilling life just as it is right now and so can they.
Like my courageous and beloved friend taught me, I have to trust that either way I will in fact be OK. I have to let the grief out and I have to let the joy in so that I can experience receiving most of what I have lost, most of what I have always deserved to hold, most of what I have ever wanted.Â
Thank you, my dear friend (you know who you are), for teaching me these lovely lessons. Hang in there Baby #2, Auntie Annie is really excited to meet you! Â
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Photo credits:
1. PregnancyÂ