Letting Go

At every point in the human journey we find that we have to let go in order to move forward; and letting go means dying a little. In the process we are being created anew, awakened afresh to the source of our being. (Kathleen R. Fisher)

How many times in our life have we let go? This is most painful, but also most liberating... Letting go is closest to dying, but with it comes peace of mind... A line from a poem by Emily Dickinson best describes the ordeal one goes through: first chill, then stupor, then letting go...

My first "letting go" was with my pet dog, Rover. I was 4 then, and the hurt was just unbearable. I felt as if the world's most unfair. I cried over him for days. My dad tried to find ways to comfort me but they're not enough to ease my pain over the loss of my pet. Until a new puppy came along...

Then, when I was 12, my dear grandpa died. He was my best friend, my refuge. There was a feeling of numbness, as well as confusion... The pain of losing a person -- much so someone you love -- is too uncomprehensible to me. At this age, I had learned in concept that people die, and that death is inevitable. But it wasn't until this moment that I realized death is a reality. Everyone -- even people you love -- die. At the wake, I cried and cried until I couldn't breathe. My only rest was when the tears seemed to have all poured out and I'd gotten so tired and fallen asleep. The sadness remained even after my grandpa was burried. There was the numbing realization that unlike my puppy, Grandpa could never be replaced. He was gone for good ...

More deaths followed as I was growing up. More pet dogs and cats came and went away -- then relatives and acquaintances -- I'd shedded tears, but the pain became less and less. Either I'd become more stoic every time, or acceptance of death had sunk in... Or perhaps I had grown more mature and I had learned to deal with grief over loved ones.

When Grandma died, there was a different kind of pain. A pang of regret that engulfed me for weeks. I was in high school then, and I never had enough time to spend with her. I was at that age when I liked doing my own stuff -- stuff I used to do with Grandma had become very dull and boring, so on successive summer vacations (the only time I could go visit her at the province) I skipped (and skipped I did) going to novenas with her, skipped her sewing and crocheting lessons, skipped just about everything I considered back then as childish and haggish. Never had it occurred to me that the summer in 91 was the last summer I was going to see my grandmother again -- with her tied-back long hair, beaded sandals, and pearl earrings. Grandma who always got mad at my mom for scolding me... who patiently waited for me at the beach, while I built my sandcastles and collected shells and wooden flowers... sigh... realization came too late. Sadder it was to learn that letting go was harder when one is filled with guilt and regret. The struggle involved not just letting go of the person and her memories, but letting go of my own guilt feelings and accepting that I had failed to do things that might have made my grandma happy when she was still alive...

After graduating from college, real loss had yet to come. Worst pain I've ever felt. Not just chill, but a trembling that shook the core of my soul. Just right after college, my Dad died of a sudden heart attack. He never made it to the hospital. He was declared DOA. Everything was spinning, wheeling --- I was struck with an unbelievable stupor -- my mind went blank, as if it had stopped functioning. I was merely observing -- seeing but not processing the images and the sounds around me. I wouldn't go into the details, as until now, the pain -- though less -- has not thoroughly ebbed. But Dad's death was a lost wherein a part of me had also been lost. Part of me died with him, and this time, letting go had seemed fictional -- to me it had become nothing but a concept -- a concept conceived by humans to be able to deal with unbearable pain.

It took me a while to accept that Dad's gone. But the ordeal had made me stronger. Unless there's another death in the family (God forbid), I knew then that I have become a different person. No, I haven't become stoic, apathetic, and numb; I'm still a wet blanket -- I cry when I hear sad songs, I cry over cartoons, I cry when I feel alone, but I've learned how to deal with grief. Cry (yes, cry your heart out), let go (there's no other recourse but to do so), and then move on... There's nothing I could do but bear in mind that life is short, people I love may be gone before I can even blink; and that I shouldn't feel very secure within my comfort zone -- as nothing and no situation lasts forever.

To quote Kenneth J. Doka:
"We do not get over grief. But over time, we do learn to live with the loss. We learn to live a different life...with our loss."

Yes, I learned to live a different life with my losses. Pain and loss had every now and then peeked into my life, even in love and relationships (or should I say especially in love and relationships) but that is life. And life, as they say, is riddled with journeys. Letting go is just another step toward a new journey. And though this may sound cliche, no matter how rough the ride, I must learn to appreciate and make the most of each journey -- who knows? maybe the next journey would take me to the one place where I will belong. That one place I can call home...