The Grieving Process

Grief

"The softest, freest, most pliable and changeful living substance is the brain -- the hardest and most ironbound as well." – Charlotte Perkins Gillman

My memories are foggy; I have suppressed them for far too long. My therapist says that I need to record the events of my niece's death and my emotions, in order to come to terms with her loss. She says writing everything I can remember about this tragedy will begin the grieving process, and I can start healing. Bullshit, all I need to deal with my niece's passing is Xanax, Paxil and a fifth of Jack Daniels.

It's been nine years since my niece died. Why should I start healing now? You'd think after almost a decade, I'd be over it -- moving on with my life. I'm not. My therapists says this and that, sometimes I wish she would shut her mouth and listen to me! On the rare occasions my therapist decides to listen, I can't speak, I can't breathe, I have an anxiety attack, I want to die. I shake so violently I can feel my bones rattling against each other. I'm so sick of dealing with something unnatural, something that was not supposed to happen. I've lost my faith in God, excluded my family, become a prescription drug addict and an alcoholic.

Wouldn't you try to erase that horrible event from your memory if you were me? Hell, you'd block each thought about her death out, so you don't have to deal with it. Of course, my methods for erasing the painful memories I have are not advised, nor recommended. I could deal with her death, but I can't deal with the way in which she died. So careless, cruel, cold, malicious.

I guess I'm lucky that I couldn't access pills and liquor right after she died. If I could, I wouldn't be sitting here typing this out. All I had were razor blades to cut my wrists with and a hot pink notebook to journal my thoughts and record my feelings. The scars are raised and still visible upon my wrists. I was looking for a way to release my pain; instead, I marred my body with a constant reminder of torment. I wear long sleeves in the summer time, so I'm not questioned as to why I have marks all over my wrists. Sure, it's hot, but I don't want anyone asking me questions about why I have mutilated my body, like I could give them a decent answer. My journal is worn and tattered. The once white pages are tinged yellow from age; ink is smeared upon them from my tears. "The journal will be beneficial to you for reconstructing your memory about your niece's death," my therapist said. Yeah, sure lady if you say so.

I might as well begin my story. I don't want to, but it beats rambling on. The last journal entry is dated April 29, 2001, I haven't written since then, I haven't felt like it. That was six days after I found out how Amelia died, at the hands of her father.

On June 2, 2000 my niece died in the care of her loving father and my brother in law, Danny. The last time I would see her alive would be the day before. When I went to say good bye to her in the hospital emergency room, she was already dead. I was only thirteen years old, a mere child. Before her death, the worst things I had been through were making a C in Math and breaking up with a boyfriend. Now, as a child I had to deal with adult problems. My whole world was thrown into complete instability. I didn't know what the next day would bring. When the truth about her death was finally unraveled, piece by piece, I realize now that the months after she died were probably the very best. My family was still intact, and life was as normal as it could possibly be considering the situation.

My niece, Amelia, was born on February 11, 2000. I was ecstatic, my family was overjoyed. We were all talking constantly in the months before her birth, arguing about what her name would be and anxiously awaiting her arrival into this world. In the four short months of her life, we took care of her and loved her. Her health was fine until she was a month old, then the problems began. She was constantly sick, refusing to eat, and very irritable. My mother said she was probably suffering from colic, we never imagined the real cause of the problem. My sister took her to the doctor over twenty three times in her short four month life. Pediatricians were puzzled; they could not find a single thing wrong with Amelia. There were no outward signs of any problems. Her formula was changed seven times, each having the same effect in the end: her refusal to eat, hours of crying and violent fits of vomiting.