When mental health and a soul meet and stride in a positive direction, there really is no other choice than the physical part of one's being to make those positive strides as well.
It is a funny thing. Grieving. Many can try to write a book, articles and formulate these "educated" studies on what it is, how it is processed in one's being and give identifying phases so that one can judge another person in their grieving process. After a death or tramatic event often times a doctor will say "he/she is angry that is the second phase of the process, he/she has three more to go". To go where? To get well? To feel normal? To identify that "yay, I have made it, I can forget now"? Life is a grieving process. We grieve the loss of an animal, a relationship (platonic or romantic), clothes that don't fit, loss of a vehicle, we grieve. For some things, yes, these is a "process" but it is a never ending process. You never fully recover because there will always be a topic of conversation about the animal, clothing, vehicle, relationship will always come up. Always. You can't run from it. You aren't healed. It just becomes easier when you vocalize with relatives and strangers about what it is that is being grieved. That is the phase. The phase is about how "tolerable" you are every day that passes when you talk about what you are grieving.
The grieving process comes for me a little bit later and it never stays in the same place at one moment in time. When my Papa Moe died November of 2009 I called and made arrangements for the appointments, I wrote his obituary, called all the close friends and relatives and answered most of the questions when the funeral home director would ask them. When he would ask my Oma a question, she would nod to me with a blank stare and her eyes were empty. It was the same kind of emptiness you would find in staring down the hospital hallway wondering if they forgot about you. The same emptiness that I found in my Papa's eyes when he met his maker. She was empty and I had no choice but to worry about her emptiness in order to get all the paperwork processed. I didn't cry until the year anniversary of his death. I didn't really even think about his death until the anniversary, then I was scared. I was scared that he would be angry at me for missing his birthday that year, their anniversary, or any other important anniversary of memories we made. I forgot, all of that. I was empty, my brain was on auto pilot because I knew that in 365 days of November 11,2009 I would have to relive the day that I never wanted to relive again. Grief comes in waves now with him. Mostly thankfulness that the cancer that crippled his body and emphysema that inhibited his breathing never was able to touch his soul and deter him away from his Lord.
I thought after discussing my grieving process with whom ever came in my path, I knew what my process was and I knew myself. <~ But I didn't. At all. When my dad died, my "process" was no longer any kind of process. It was chaos. Pure fucking chaos (sorry for the language). I raced to my grandma's, hugged everyone and I found myself in my grandpa's lap like I was 8 years old again, wondering where my daddy could possibly be and why I wasn't with him. I was young. My mother and family never hid him from my brother and me. Would answer honestly when we asked. I remember being 8. My brother and me had just gotten done with our bubble baths (those were our favorite) and ice cream. the nightly ritual would be brush the teeth and crawl in the lap of my grandpa who would then rock me to sleep. He was rocking me to the noise of Wheel of Fortune and I was staring off into the distance of the three pictures my grandma had on the book shelf. They were graduation pictures. Individual pictures of my aunt, my uncle and my dad. He was in the middle. A tall slender man and at 8 years old I fantasized about where he was, what he was doing and why he wasn't here. Not that I didn't want my grandpa's lap (I wouldn't trade that for the world) but it wasn't my daddy's. I never asked my grandpa that day because he never spoke about him. Ever. At the age of 28 on February 20, I was right where I needed to be in my grieving process. I was an 8 year old girl. I couldn't put the pieces together, call anyone or even fathom writing an obituary. I had to have my moment, my five minutes to just BE. Be right where I needed to be. I needed to be a child, grieving for her daddy, in her second daddy's lap. Moments after, I wrote the obituary because I wanted to, and I sat quietly unless it specifically pertained to me at the funeral home. I had empty eyes. Putting together a full sentence was not a requirement so I didn't do it. I have never had the denial, anger, or bargaining "phases" of grief. I have accepted his death because I am not allowed to bargain by God's decisions. It's not me. I have however slumped into depression. Not clinical depression but my emotional eating has taken over me.
I find myself not caring. Not caring about what I am putting into my body and I firmly believe it is because I don't believe in my mental health. I have accepted my dad's death but I haven't let the situation that claimed his life shake me into making decisions in my life for the better. I have gotten comfortable with just being mediocre and lost my passion for weight lifting and seeing positive changes in my body and the numbers at the gym. I lost my path to keep me sane. It is there somewhere. I am trying to reclaim that. Little by little I starting to fight. Fight for what I need because I deserve it.
This is me, pushing, forcing, making strides with my mental health so that the positive changes in my physical health will follow.This blog I have lost track of and really I should have been using it as a blank canvas to spill out all of my angers, frustrations, triumphs and proclamations through this whole entire weight loss and now, grieving process.
And so I will do so. Work. Run. Mom. is in full effect and the chances of me stopping is not in sight.