Every February, after the groundhog does or doesn’t see his shadow, after the Valentines are distributed and devoured, a dark cloud descends, uninvited, upon my world. Regardless of what the groundhog has said.
For me, mid-February always means at least 6 more weeks of winter. Since 2010, the middle of February through May 15 is official Turner season.
No matter what else is going on in the world, no matter how much time has passed, the cloud darkens my days, looming overhead like my own personal weather system.
It took a couple of years to first make the connection between the time of year and my seemingly random emotional decline. To pinpoint the thread that caused the yearly unravel. Awareness brought some relief and a defeated resignation to the new normal, but no resolution to the pain.
Knowing something intellectually and integrating that knowledge into our innermost souls are two totally different things.
Our minds can’t un-know the traumas with which our bodies are so intimately acquainted. These experiences, these losses, become a literal part of us, woven into the fabric of our beings. And they refuse to be discarded like an over-worn garment, no matter how desperately we long to shed them. As Bessel Van Der Kolk affirms on repeat, the body keeps the score.
Even in our pain, we strive toward independence, toward doing things on our own. Without letting anyone else in. As if the rest of humankind isn’t out there muddling about beneath their own invisible rainclouds. The sun emerging at the end of one man’s season, the light eclipsed at the beginning of another’s.
Our contrived independence can’t last forever. I waited two long years to ask for help. Two excruciating seasons haunted by the cloud to look for support outside of the handful of people I had allowed to peek at my suffering.
In tortured desperation, the first question I asked my therapist was “What is wrong with me? It’s been two years! Why can’t I get over this?” Believing in that moment that I was the most worthless, crippled soul for not being able to handle it on my own.
I wish I could hug that hopeless, confused, lonely version of myself. I would shake her and tell her “It’s what is RIGHT with you! It’s only been two years! How could you EVER get over this?”
We see vulnerability as weakness, when it’s really the language of our humanity. God made us for connection, compassion, collaboration, and community. WE NEED OTHER PEOPLE TO SURVIVE. We need them even more to thrive.
Healing begins with brokenness. When we invite each other in to the shattered spaces, we not only rebuild, we create something altogether new. Something far more beautiful than before.
Our cloud does not come to destroy us. It is summoned from a place of need, creating space for remembrance once the rest of the world has forgotten. It will teach us if we let it. And it will draw us into a place of meaningful togetherness with others, making us incrementally, practically, and hope-fully less alone.
Thank you for sharing this. I’ve had 5 miscarriages and it was so hard to process those losses. I never talked about those losses with anyone. I just bottled it all up and did my best to get through each one of them. I wish I would have dealt with my grief differently all those years ago…live and learn. Scars remain, but I’m incredibly grateful for the 2 amazing boys God entrusted me to raise.
Thank you for sharing Shaunna. I am so incredibly sorry for your losses. You are not alone in your grief, my friend.