It was a few weeks after Samuel died. The fog of shock was lifting and the devastating reality of his lifelong absence was settling into my heart. I wandered around our silent house, searching for something – anything – but came up empty. There was nothing. My arms ached from the desire to hold him. My body ached from the mothering building up inside with no tangible outlet. My heart felt on the brink of explosion from the love seeping out with no place to go. My brain ached from the constant barrage of questions and reasons and confusion. I was lost.
I climbed the stairs to our bedroom and my mind began to whirl. My heart joined in. Suddenly, at a complete loss for any other action, I simply stood by my dresser and screamed. The booming, screeching, blood-curdling scream of a mother whose child was dead. The scream that rises from the core of your being and pours out with such ferocity, it’s impossible to stop or contain. I screamed and screamed and screamed. At the injustice, at the madness, at the unfulfilled dreams. For the loneliness, the emptiness, and the trauma too dark to name. I screamed for the son whose life had been stolen by death, and for the mother who was left behind to face the darkness. I screamed at the women who have babies like it’s nothing, and take their children for granted. I screamed for the women who do all things right, but still end up with despair. I screamed at the people in my life who acted like it was time to move on, when I knew in my heart that was impossible. I screamed with rage, and desperation, and anguish; in complete and utter desperation.
For a moment, my screams were so loud – so unrelenting – that even I became scared of them. The thought crossed my mind that my neighbors would hear and think I was being murdered. But as soon as it swept across my mind, I realized I didn’t care. Let them think it, it was basically the truth. It was just that instead of a person doing the killing, it was Injustice, and Death, and Grief. They were murdering my soul, from the inside out. And all I could do was scream.
Finally, my voice gave out. The urge that demanded release was now fulfilled, for the time being. My throat was dry and aching, my ears were ringing, and my face red. But somehow, in the briefest of moments, I felt satisfied.
There have been many times in the past three years that I’ve been overcome with emotion. (Many, many times.) But that scream was the scream I’ll always remember. The scream of a broken mother. I can still feel that scream when I close my eyes. I can still see the room spinning around me as it burst from my soul. I can think back to it and hurt for that version of myself that was living that part of this nightmare. I wish I could hold her and say “Let it out…I’m here with you…it’s okay to feel like this”. I guess, in a way, I was caring for myself by allowing it to come out.
If you’re in the place where all you can do is scream, please be gentle with yourself. I believe wholeheartedly that our something deep inside us knows what we need to do to survive such unthinkable trauma. Trust those instincts. If you need to scream, find a safe place, and let it out. You’re not crazy, you’re not doing it wrong, you’re not losing it. You’re allowing your heart to do its work.
Trust yourself, and let it out.
{Your Thoughts}