If I close my eyes, I can vividly imagine sitting in the middle row of the balcony seat. I’m at the Montecasino Theatre. The lights in the theatre are dim, and thick, heavy, mahogany drapes with gold trimmings hang from the ceiling, concealing the stage before us. The theatre is full and I would expect no less for such an occasion. My husband, Brian, holds two programmes in his hand. We sit in anticipation of the long-awaited opening Act of Andrew Lloyd Webber’s The Phantom of the Opera musical. The meters of fabric, ominous candlelight and effects all work perfectly together. In a few minutes, the Paris Opera House will be recreated on stage.
The Phantom of the Opera is one of my most beloved stories, and I find myself returning to it time and time again. Lately, though, I’ve been looking at this play in a different way. In the first year of grief, I was very similar to the Phantom. I found myself becoming more and more elusive, hiding behind a mask as I pretended to be okay.
The Story
The Phantom in this story, Erik, is born disfigured. He is rejected and tortured by his own mother. That and his appearance make him shrink into the shadows. He becomes dejected, depressed, and spends years of his life in the shadows, shrouded in darkness. The Phantom lives a solitary life, shunned by society because of a birth defect.
He didn’t ask to be born the way he was, yet he is cruelly isolated from the rest of the world because he doesn’t fit the mold. A child with musical talent, (that in my view far exceeds that of his peers), is made to live below the opera house. He falls desperately in love with a beautiful girl named Christine to whom he appears as the Angel of Music. What follows is a tale of desperation and sacrifice that few other stories can parallel.
You Have a Story to Share
How often have you felt awkward talking to friends and family about a perfectly healthy pregnancy? Early on, I found myself referring to “when I was pregnant with my son.” But my pregnancies were different and thus my experiences, too.
Talking about my second pregnancy with Zia has become easier the more comfortable I am with my own story. Just as the Phantom has a beautiful talent to share, your babies’ stories are sacred, special and worthy of sharing.
Related Post: Sharing Your Story: You Change The World
The Struggle Through Darkness
We all go through deep grief and struggles, but it’s how we navigate the darkness that shows true character.
“This haunted face holds no horror for me, now. It’s in your soul that the true distortion lies . . . !”
In the end, it isn’t the fact that Erik is disfigured that scares Christine. It’s the darkness in his soul. So often when faced with an unfathomable loss, it’s easy to allow the darkness to fester and grow. But after some time, we have to let light in. This is why it’s so important for friends and family to be supportive. Even if it’s an occasional call or message just to let the family know they’re not alone.
Give What You’re Experiencing a Name
The Phantom suffers for years from undiagnosed and untreated depression as a result of the abuse he endures as a child. I’m reminded of a woman who told me once that she’d only begun dealing with the loss of her baby at the time of our conversation. That was, if I calculated correctly, over twenty years after her baby died. It saddened me that she never thought her depression and her loss were interrelated. Of course, there were other problems that reared their head along the way, but one of the primary obstacles she faced was the fact that she hadn’t adequately dealt with her baby’s death.
There’s no shame in seeking professional help. There are trained grief counselors and doctors able to give you the support you need. This journey needn’t be taken alone.
The Importance of an Outlet for Grief
Much like the Phantom, I spent a great deal of time being a spectator, especially early on after losing Zia. I let life take its course, and followed along, lurking in the depths, overwhelmed by my own sadness and the tragic loss of my daughter.
Much like Erik, I needed an outlet for my grieving process. His was music, mine is writing. It’s important to find an outlet that speaks to your personal healing journey and feels right for you. There is great comfort in music, art, and writing. Journaling your thoughts can be a good start.
Related Post: On Grief and Creativity: Channeling Your Love Momentum
Slip Off the Phantom Mask
Many times we put on a mask to try to hide the “ugliness” that comes with losing a child. We wear a smile for the benefit of everyone but ourselves. From personal experience, I know that wearing a mask hurts more than what’s beneath it. So, let the world see your pain and don’t hide it.
I remember my first outing after my daughter died. It was just to the toy store in the mall with my son and husband. We came upon family members sitting in an ice-cream shop across the store. We went over to say hello, as one of them also happened to be a religious leader and the person who officiated at Zia’s funeral. I can still remember the way he and his wife tried to avoid us, despite the fact that they were sitting at a table in the corridor. They could barely look us in the eye.
It was as if the “ugliness” of our grief was too much for them to bear. So we put on our masks, smiled, and became the vision of a happy family out toy shopping. Still, it didn’t change the way they saw us. Grief had changed us, and we should have worn it more proudly.
A mask is only temporary, and sooner or later we all have to face the truth – the “ugliness” is there and a very real part of who we are. The more we show it, the more society will understand it’s wrong to shun people who are hurting.
I hope that anyone reading this will never again wear a mask for the benefit of others.
Image courtesy of free image bay
Jo-Anne Joseph is a wife, mother to two beautiful children, one of whom lives in her heart. She is a career woman, author and freelance writer from South Africa. She blogs at www.mylittlelightzia.wordpress.com and writes for www.glowinthewoods.com.
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