Charlie Brown, Linus, and the Act of Grieving

Trigger Warning: Mention of trauma, and journey through a grieving session. 

Additional link to previous post that discusses trauma and behaviors associated with it. 

Also: Beware of cuteness 





Hello world:

Meet my adorable husband. This photo was taken at a Halloween Party. We went as Linus and Charlie Brown. I'm Linus, and the adorable man in the yellow shirt is my husband, Rod. We decided to go as a grown-up version of Charlie Brown and Linus, with the added "what if?" the two fostered an adoring relationship in adulthood.

Rod is simply the most wonderful man I've ever met. He is handsome, kind, sincere, and possesses a capacity for great love. He also has a way about him that just melts me in any given moment. We slow-dance before dinner at home, and look to one another for support. We also give each other space to grow. Rod is better at this last skill than I am. But he is exceptional at setting boundaries when I try to manage his stuff, over mine.  

His love has captivated me in a way that no other person ever has. I'm willing to admit that this may have something to do with the work that I've done to become lovable in a relationship. I had this backwards for so many years. "If I can just loose five more pounds, I can make him love me." Or, "If only I could bench 240lbs, then they would find me attractive."

Today, I work out purely (OK . . . Mostly!) for myself. And my handsome prince is so gentle in his display of love. It's more than him simply snuggling with me, or doing something demonstrative. We're both good at that. It's the thoughtfulness behind his actions that leave me awe-struck with his intentions.

Which brings us to grieving. I don't like it. It's messy, and it feels like it's beyond my control. And I don't . . . like . . . not . . . being . . . in . . . control!

Oh, I can talk about the process of grief. I can illustrate in both written and oral language the steps and work to make space, and benefits of grieving. But the next boat-load of sadness coming down the pike feels like it's gonna' kill me! I don't want to cry in front of anyone, and I want control (Did I mention control?) of the circumstances on which I am going to grieve over, and for how long, and to what intensity. Thank you very much.

This is not to say that I am incapable of grieving without a struggle. In fact, I'm a big-old softie. Send me to a Broadway touring company musical, or the right movie, and I can go from zero to Niagara Falls in mere moments. But these are controlled (Did I mention control?) circumstances where the length, content and intensity is predetermined.

Did I mention control?

So this attempt to bring you along on my latest journey of grieving is something I do not take lightly. I know that survivors of adverse childhood experiences wrestle with grief in unique ways that may not lend themselves to typical skills sets that get presented to us. Therefore, I've decided to bring you with me for a glimpse at my process. I do this for two reasons. 

1. I am fortunate to have survived and flourished. Over the years, I have seen many people with similar histories falter and slip into what appears to be the bottomless trenches of past trauma issues; some have never returned. 

2. I know that writing has been a strength for me. Writing my story down not only makes room for recovery in my life, but becomes a frame of reference when needed. 

I've been feeling some severe sadness as of late during the one constant in my life that usually sustains me . . . Swimming. 

Swimming has been a symbol of safety for my entire life. Swimming has challenged me both professionally and personally to be more than I thought I was capable of. As a child, swimming was a safe space to experience positive interactions with adults. As an adolescent, swimming became something that gave me physical prowess and praise among my peers; something I desperately needed. 

In high school, there were problems with substances and relations with others, but swimming set the bar for what would and would not be acceptable. While there were difficulties, swimming double sessions over the summer, and focusing on swimming during the school year kept my grades acceptable, and broadened my circle of friends. 

After graduation, it was my return to swimming that helped me see (however slowly) that the person I was purporting to be on the pool deck was not the person I was when away from the water. Now a coach, instructor, and lesson supervisor, I saw that my behavior away from the pool did not sit well with me. Other organizations and institutions over the years would help free me from substance abuse, and other issues. But it was swimming that always shed light on the necessity of this movement to wellness in the smallest and most impressionable measures. 

Even during a lull in my own swimming, I worked in and around the fringes of the sport; mentoring others and assisting with teaching for sessions from time to time. I would help out with a lesson program and teach young instructors how to teach. 

As an adult who quit smoking, swimming called to me once again, and I answered. I love being in and around the water. I found myself giving impromptu lessons to other adults during lap swims, and working behind the scenes to come back to the water. I attended swim meets again, and saw just how much I loved the sport. 

So why this recent sadness at the prospect of teaching, guarding or lap swimming? 

I know there is always work for me to do. My young life had a significant amount of trauma, and I realize full well that there are days where I must redouble my efforts at working on and through those issues. Years of substance abuse and other behaviors that were attempts to keep stuff at bay were not long-term solutions to recovery. 

But this was different. This had a tag to my soul, and I knew why it pulled so deeply, and so painfully. 

This is one of those times where I must consider the welfare of others. I will write cautiously for anonymity's sake. It is not my place to grieve at the expense of another's comfort. A boundary has been set, and I will respect it. 

Before swimming laps yesterday, I called a trusted friend in recovery. I reviewed some recent decisions I had made, and the regret associated with those decisions. I was aware of the source of the sadness, and how swimming made the awareness of those decisions intensify.

My wonderful friend offered candid and loving feedback during our conversation. They were both advocate and cheerleader. Something my friend said stayed with me. "It's like training for years for an event, then being told your not swimming, as your heading up to the blocks." 

I swam and reflected on this conversation. This is something I do often when swimming laps. The inverse is that I simply count my laps and (if troubled) awareness and perspective comes to me during the swim. I have had immense success with this as well. I also know that it's just nice to "check out" and swim. More often than not, I do the latter of these three things while doing laps. As much as swimming is good for my body, it is precious fuel for my soul. 

I finished my swim and showered in the changing facilities. As has been my practice lately, I took some time to meditate after the swim. I tend to be using the pool when the crowds are dim, so there's time and space to do this in the locker room, undisturbed. It has been part of my letting go process recently. I'm in a clearer space after a swim, so I take advantage of that clarity to search inward. 

I returned home with one goal. Change and clean the litter box. Circumstance upended that plan the moment I tried to move the bag of cat litter. There was a hole in the bag that required patching. The bag was in a delivery box, and moving the box spread the remnants of the cat litter through two rooms of the apartment. The spillage of litter meant I would have to vacuum. The vacuum wouldn't work, because I inadvertently knocked one of the outlet extender plugs out of the wall trying to plug in the vacuum. The vacuum clogged, and in my agitated state, I made it unusable; but not before getting up all the cat litter. 

Ever notice that accidents and mishaps tend to domino when stress is already in the mix? Or is that just me? 

At this point, I'm furious! I am just so mad that nothing is going my way. I change and clean the cat box, and bring the trash downstairs. That's when I give a second notice to a box that is on the bed (Image recreated here). 

I sit down to look at social media on my iPad, and decide to peek in the box. I'm a sweaty mess, I'm pissed off, and here's what I found. 

That thoughtful, sincere, loving husband I told you about? This was inside the box. Linus and Charlie Brown. His gift signified a wonderful evening we spent together at a Halloween dance fundraiser. All the friends we saw, the love and adoration we experienced, the slow dancing and affection we shared that evening and always. Here was a heartfelt little token of appreciation from the most wonderful man I know. 

And as my heart mended a little bit more, the floodgates of sadness opened. I began to sob, then weep, then cry uncontrollably. The words of grief flowed with my tears. I will embellish for sake of privacy: 

I'm sorry! (Name not included)

I'm so fuckin' sorry! 

It's my fault! 

I tried to do right. 

But I must have done it wrong. 

I included professionals.

I wrote.

I tried to reach out.

I'm sorry! 

I don't sit well while crying. I was also frightened, so I got up to check the door; locked and latched. I went back to the bedroom and picked up Charlie Brown and Linus. 

I'm sorry! (Name not included)

I tried to do right!

But I must have done it wrong!

I checked with therapists.

I tried.

I'm so sorry! 

Then something shifted. There was another level to this grief. A depth I thought reconciled that needed to be expressed. I began making amends to my 13 year old self. I can speak freely of my own self talk. 

I'm sorry Mikey! 

I'm so fuckin' sorry!

I didn't mean to take you to Deering Oaks.

I didn't know that man was going to be there.

He wanted to take fuckin' pictures! 

That sick fuck!

Why did he do that to me?

Why! 

I'm sorry Mikey!

I'm so sorry I took you there!

I didn't know!

I didn't know there were men like that out there!

I was grieving a situation that had defined me. As a damaged 13 year-old with a trauma history, I had gone looking for sexual contact and found one of the most evil of men. Someone looking to exploit young boys. I now realize that whatever shreds of humanity I had left were stolen from me that day in the spring/summer of 1975. 

Read the full story sometime at this link: 

(Additional Trigger Warning) Memories of Junior High School (Previous Post In This Blog)

Later that summer, a broken arm prevented me from swimming. I took it up again during the school year and swam for the Junior High team during my 8th grade year. I swam that summer, and on through high school. I was a school record holder and a state champion. 

I also taught swimming to kids and worked summers at a local YMCA. This increased my self-esteem and began (little did I know) the healing process of the abuse I suffered. I had an opportunity to be good to kids, and the kids seemed to enjoy working with me. 

Given all that swimming has brought to me, it makes perfect sense that swimming would also make room for the child within to grieve as an adult. One of the things I haven't mentioned is that when I was sobbing, I was clutching a lifeguard shirt. The irony is not lost on me. 

And letting go, for me, is part of the healing process. It's why I can still be fearful of grieving. I'm afraid that I will feel all of the pain in one fatal dose. It's why I strive for control when dealing with sadness. But letting go of control is the very key to feeling those feelings. 

There's a theme here with control, letting go, and grieving, I believe (Snark font unavailable) 

And the simple loving act of my husband's gift dropped my guard enough for me to feel the pain of that little boy who pedaled his bicycle into Portland in 1975. That little boy had already been lied to in deed and word by a large number of adults who had exploited him. My little, precious, curious Mikey did not have the proper tools to maneuver through puberty. And there were additional people who abused that. My young feet may have brought me to that place, but there were already adults who had steered me in that direction. 

I embrace that little boy that lives inside me. It is my hope that I can help him continue to flourish . . . And grieve when he has to. I want to hold space for him (and others like him) where compassion and understanding can create a healing place. 

I hope this has been helpful to the 800 people who have viewed this blog so far, and those that will continue to visit here. 

As always, I would love to hear from you about your strategies for grieving or other tools of recovery.

Peace, 

M