The Difference Between Being Sad and Feeling Sad
--
Grief, pain, growth, and liberation
My eighteen-year-old cousin, Chris, shot himself in the head in a game of Russian Roulette late one morning amidst getting high.
I gather he tried to impress some girls but made the fatal mistake of taking it too far.
His two fellow accomplices, who helped him sell steroids and steal gym equipment around town, were also present.
A somewhat dubious mystery remains to this day if these two guys shot him or if he played Russian Roulette.
The two men left the state that day and were never seen again.
Unbeknownst to anyone, the authorities exhumed his body after his funeral several weeks later in search of evidence of foul play. Chris shot himself with his left hand even though he was right-handed, and the two goons he was committing theft and selling drugs left that state and never returned. But no answers unfolded, and we were all stuck with the pain of losing him forever without knowing why he died.
I do not know if the formaldehyde disintegrated forensic evidence or if no one cared, but the police closed the case. And we, his family, were left with no answers.
Chris was taken to the Pomona Hospital, and he was placed on life support.
When my brother and I arrived, we visited him separately. He was our dearest loved one, and he was mortally injured. Then, our estranged mother showed up, and instantly, an awful situation became worse.
Earlier that year, my Grandma Anne had died of liver failure and in her will, she left all of her belongings to my brother, two younger cousins, and myself.
Anticipating a fight over money, Grandma Anne made the will and trust contingent; if the sisters chose to contest it, Aunt Nancy and my mother would only receive one measly dollar.
My mother, who left my family when I was ten, demanded that I give her my share of the money after the probate finally ended.
It was only $24k but felt like $24 million at nineteen years old.
A pivotal moment ensued when her wicked tongue, full of scorn, changed the trajectory of our relationship forever. Frightened, I finally took a stand and said "no" to her. At that point, I knew I could never ask anything from her again, and that remains true to this day.
Chris died forty days after his fatal stunt, and I did not even know how to begin to process his death. He had just had a baby. And I had spent so much of my childhood playing with him and going on vacations with the family, I found myself sinking into a surreal world made of my own devices.
To say my decision-making was offset was an understatement. "Seize the Day" became my mantra, although my real modus operandi was to run as far away as possible. That year, I moved from Santa Barbara to San Jose, from Berkeley to Westlake Village, and back to Santa Barbara in less than four months.
The Impact of Death
Death affects everyone differently at different stages of their life. My stage was denial. I avoided contact with my Aunt Nancy, younger cousin Mandy, and Uncle Eddie. I did not know what to say.
Many nights, I cried with guilt and shame that I was such a coward. But I still did not call. I could not find the words to explain my sorrow.
I held onto the death of my cousin like mortar to a stone. My feelings were deeply ground into the setting of his death, and I could not let go. Every day and every night, I thought of him. He was so young. I was so young. This tragedy did not mix well with my idealistic nature, resulting in a chronic, painful anguish that I have yet to never truly shake, even when I tried to subdue these feelings with marijuana.
Drug Abuse
And I got high! All day long, I was altered.
It was my preference of being. It was more than escape; it was a way of life. This perpetual need for numbness followed me to work, the movies, on walks, and while I enjoyed my time with my friends. I cannot remember a moment where I took a sober breath for over a decade.
Something happens to a person when they are on drugs all the time. They check out. They disassociate. To function, I needed to be high.
Therefore, while I became academically smart, and street smart, my ability to be emotionally secure weakened.
At that point, I masqueraded as a person I only pretended it to be. I knew how to walk the walk. I knew how to tap to someone else's tune before they even knew they had one (Crisman, 1991). But no one knew me.
I was funny, charming, witty, impulsive, and hard-working. But inside, I was tortured by existence itself. I wanted to die most of the time. I would curl up in bed and sleep for days. Most days, I slept 12 to 16 hours. Sleep was a time of mental repair, and it was also a time of escape. The biggest issue was that I was ill-prepared in any way for the future repercussions of pain that awaited me.
Crushed
It was July 19, 1999, when my brother called to say my dad was pooping his pants. I rushed down to California from Oregon on the next plane. My dad had a hollow look in his eyes, and I felt he was bound for a mental institution. His moods had always been erratic, and he, too, succumbed to drug addiction for relief daily.
However, after eight hours in the Tarzana Emergency Room, my dad finally walked out and told me nothing was wrong. He was angry that I insisted he wear adult diapers, and he demanded to leave. There was no way I was going anywhere until I spoke to a doctor. So, as he sat outside in the parking lot to smoke, a habit he vehemently denied, I confronted the doctor.
"He has a huge mass in his lung," the doctor gently explained." He will need to go to inpatient and be examined." I had no idea what the doctor was implying. I did not understand cancer yet. But I allowed the paramedics to race my father away in an ambulance to another hospital two hours away that his insurance would accept.
When the workup was complete, we learned that Dad had seven brain tumors and kidney cancer, too.
Jason and I repeatedly played "Father of Mine" by Everclear for several hours that night while drinking microbrews. My dad was extremely sick, and he hid it from us until he could no longer hide it from anyone.
My brother and I spoke a few words that night. We mostly sat in silence, listening to a song about a father who left his children behind forever.
In my Portland home, I cared for my dad for 11 weeks. I washed his butt, made him food, and begged him not to fall. I called him by his first name because, with brain damage, patients respond to their own names versus dad or whatnot.
He was not about to give up smoking, so I placed him in hospice and sat with him every day, shamelessly stealing some of his drugs as he wasted away.
After he died, the decimation of my soul was complete. Whoever I once was no longer existed. And, I lost everything: my car, house, first husband, friends, and health. And all my money.
By the mercy of God, I was granted admittance to a halfway house near Compton, where I shared a home with 19 other women: many from prison, several prostitutes, and women who had lost their children to protective services.
I was one of the only white girls. But my charm and ability to adapt catapulted me into acceptance. The women actually liked me, and I truly loved them. In retrospect, my time at the halfway house was the most beautiful period of time I ever spent as uncertainty loomed.
I left the halfway house with $7 in my back pocket. And I worked, and worked, and worked, and worked. I cleaned toilets, cared for other people's children, and felt demoralized each day that I did whatever was needed to make my life go back on track.
Furthermore, the rules of sober living limited my ability to work late, and I didn't particularly appreciate having to check in as well as check out on a piece of paper every time I left or came home.
Brief Normality
After meeting my husband, my life stabilized, and things were becoming better. I called my aunt and apologized for not speaking to her, but she did not seem to notice.
It is funny how a person can waste so much time worrying about another person's reaction only to find out that no one really cared but you the whole time!
It Begins Again
My cousin Mandy called me in 2010 to ask for money for a gambling debt. I said, "No." And that was the last time I ever spoke to her again. At 35, she died in 2013 from liver failure.
I quickly could see that my Aunt Nancy was also withering away due to alcoholism as I attended Mandy's funeral, which put me in a panic.
It took Nancy one year to die from liver failure. She died on the 4th of July: it was just like her to go out with a bang. I was deeply saddened, but I still had Uncle Eddie.
I made sure to call Uncle Eddie as much as I could. I visited him in Phoenix often to check on him. I grew to love him as an adult more than I ever did as a child. He made me laugh. He told me stories, and, in every sentence, he ended it with "and shit," And I was thoroughly entertained.
"I went to the store and shit, and I got potatoes and shit, and I went to the bank and shit." I can hear him say it now "and shit!"
The last time we talked, he mentioned a fact I wanted to avoid. He stated, "I am not going to be around forever and shit. You need to visit me." We agreed that I would visit after the COVID pandemic died down.
Well, there was no "after-COVID" visit. Uncle Eddie contracted the disease and died two weeks later. On the 4th of July, he left this world with a bang, just like my Aunt Nancy. I gather my Aunt Nancy came for him, finally. And Shit!
Heartache
I never sobbed so hard than with the death of Uncle Eddie. All my family members meant something to me, but I was older now and in touch with my emotions. I cried and yelled and utterly fell apart. And only four days had passed.
I told my mom, but she did not respond, and I became angry — frozen in respite.
My father's mother, Grandma Isabel, died in 2005 as well, but I was able to make amends with her as she lay on her deathbed. The last time I visited her, I got so drunk that I made a fool of her in front of her sisters. During her last few days, I flew across the country to apologize in person.
When I arrived, she was moaning, traveling in and out of two worlds. I said to her, "Grandma, it is me." She paid no mind. Immediately, I switched to calling her by her proper name, the same trick I used with my father.
For a moment, she knew I was with her in Old Kentucky. "Isabel, Isabel, it is Chelsea." Stunned, she acknowledged me." You are the best thing I could ever see right now, "she replied semi-coherently and then drifted back to where she initially headed: heaven.
When all your closest family members die, it is hard to stay present in your body. My brother and I were still a team, but the death of all of our closest family members summoned me to drift towards my darkest edges. 6es, what transpired was beyond my control. And they, my family, were all gone now.
Feeling Sad: Hope
However, something different happened to me this time. I am not sad; I feel sad. This is a concept I learned from Laurie Anderson's YouTube video How to Feel Sad Without Being Sad. I learned from Anderson that the two concepts have a huge difference. Being sad engulfs all of one's being. Feeling sad is less relentless and allows for more reprieve. Therefore, feeling sad no longer defined me. Sadness, like all emotions, is fleeting, wistful, and temporary. Although I fell short of my idea to "seize the day" many years ago, It has returned.
The way to seize the day depends less on what tall mountains we climb or grand declarations of victory of living each day as your last. To live like that is a setup for disappointment.
However, to seize the day, I listen, show love, engage in gratitude, look for the good, court my dark side, interact with others, and do not pretend to be okay all the time. Most of all, this once old codependent woman is now taking care of herself.
I have been diagnosed with PTSD, and I have to say that I am shocked. I did not realize how severely affected I was by trauma, but through therapy, I am healing.
I notice it in the little things. For instance, I sleep less, cry less, and laugh more. I am pursuing my future in education while currently working as a writing specialist and freelance writer.
I remember years ago when I was twenty, I asked my father why he had never acknowledged my writing. He told me I lacked life experience.
Guess what, Dad? I do not lack for anything anymore, and I am accountable for everything. Therefore, I will go on each day with my eyes wide open, looking into the abyss: fear replaced with wonder, expectations replaced with truth.
Life Continues
The light will come for me one day, too. This is inevitable, but I feel in every ounce of my being that I have truly lived. I have extensively traveled, earned two degrees, lived abroad as a diplomat, became an elected official as a School Board Member, and been given the opportunity to teach.
I have witnessed the last dying breath of two loved ones. I have seen my thirteen-year-old son grow into an incredible young man. I have undergone 12 major surgeries, as well as gaining weight and slowly shrinking in size again.
I have endured the frustrations of the medical system and the welfare system and advocated my rights for freedom of expression under some of the most chilling circumstances.
I have played with kittens and children and kissed homeless people to remind them they're worthy of love while avoiding zoos and climbing volcanoes in Chile.
Most importantly, I have loved many people; some have stayed, some have gone. But what I do know is that I do not have regrets. I have only love, and no one can ever take that from me: I feel sad but beautiful.
The End
Anderson, Laurie. "How to Feel Sad Without Being Sad." How To Feel Sad Without Being Sad, YouTube, www.youtube.com/watch?v=NwqZOrA2DbM.
Crisman, William H. The Opposite of Everything Is True: Reflections on Denial in Alcoholic Families. W. Morrow, 1991.
