What they don't tell you about grief, pt. 2

A Southern daughter grieves for her Daddy

I mentioned to my sister the other day that I thought I was becoming paranoid schizophrenic.

Now I know there are the “clinical” types out there that will tell me that I need to be diagnosed by a doctor before I start batting around the word schizophrenia. Let me start off first by saying: I didn’t mean it in a hyperbolic fashion. Second, I take mental illness seriously; on one occasion I gave my middle-school aged mentees a verbal lesson on not to use the word “crazy” (as in “that teacher is so crazy!”) lightly because mental illness is a serious condition and you never know who might be listening and deserve our compassion.

Back to what I consider a second manifestation of grief: paranoid schizophrenia.

To borrow Webster’s Dictionary on paranoid schizophrenia: characterized especially by persecutory or grandiose delusions or hallucinations or by delusional jealousy.

Okay, so as it turns out I am using the word schizophrenic a bit hyperbolically, but only just a tad.

Within minutes of my Father’s death I felt a sudden onset of paranoia.

There was a close family friend that my mother had me call to come over within minutes of my father dying. That was understandable and I wanted to do it, so I did. But on this family friend’s arrival (we’ll call the friend FF), I began to feel . . . suspicious. I’ve always liked FF and even have even concerned about FF when FF has been ill. All of a sudden, complete distrust welled up from somewhere inside of me.

I am so ashamed of my feelings of distrust for FF, that I can’t even share them with anyone. I am dismayed and distraught that I would feel this way about someone that both my parents loved and I have loved and trusted up until this point.

I brought all these feelings back to Maryland with me where sometimes they seem just as sever. I don’t trust the people I work with. I think they must be out to get me. I don’t trust their kind words or their looks. Case in point, a couple of the managers wanted to take me out to eat for Admin Professional’s day; I just knew they were going to lay me off. They didn’t, of course; they really just wanted to take me out to lunch.

I suspect everyone’s motives. There are people here I’ve known for years and consider close friends. Now, I pick apart every word, every action, wondering what it must mean. I try to deduce their great plan to bring me to my downfall (insert creepy laughter here).

Okay, so the deducing-my-great-downfall-part is also a bit hyperbolic.

Fortunately all of my friends are high-functioning integritists (I just made that word up).

Equally fortunate for all of my friends, I am quite a rational person. So much so, I can stop mid-crying-hyperventilation, take an emotional step back and think “Wow! That I feel this way is quite extraordinary.” Maybe it’s the actor/writer in me watching all my responses, feelings and subsequent actions. That’s what I’ve done with the paranoia. I’ve noticed my new inner commentary when I listen to extremely trustworthy friends talk and think “Wow, her too? That’s very interesting.” Then I remind myself why I actually do trust this person and move on. The paranoia becomes an annoying snore in the back of my head, like a sauce on simmer on the back burner of a stove. It’s there, I can smell it but I don’t have to hover over it enjoying the aroma for 20 minutes.

Over the past few weeks the paranoia has begun to wane. I’m sure it’s partially in part to the fact that I recognized it and refused to let it take hold of my thinking. I capture the good thoughts about people and hold on tight to them.

I remember that people love me.

I remember that people do want me to succeed.

And when I stand on the stage of my life and look out over the audience of my friends, I imagine them naked and close my eyes. Since they have often brought me into the inner sanctum of their life, they can be trusted with my life.

* * *

The curious thing is that I’m not sure which came first the insecurity or the paranoia. They both seem to feed each other. Though I would say (to continue the imagery from the previous post) that if insecurity is the slug then paranoia is the slime the slug leaves behind.

Though I find slugs fascinating, I abhor their slime. Yick. Yuck. Yak.

What they don't tell you about grief, part 1

What they don't tell you about grief:
A Southern Daughter grieves for her Daddy
Part 1

That’s attention getting.

Like 101 ways to make it rich without really trying. Or, what you’ve always wanted to know about cornfields (like don't drive through them especially when the radio reception is bad) but no one would tell you. Or, 2000 household uses for salt.

Seriously, I have noticed a couple of things about my “process of grieving” for my father that I’ve never read in any pamphlet or book on grief. What are the five stages? Anger. Denial. Acceptance. Two other things before acceptance that I can’t remember.  Other than the legitimate two that I can't remember, there are two more stages.
One of them is insecurity.


You're asking: "What do you mean insecurity? Self-esteem? Talents and abilities? Stocks and bonds?"


No, insecurity. If I meant self-esteem I’d said “self-esteem” or metioned a stock broker if I meant the market. I know I’m full of talent and I don’t gamble.


Specifically it is this: I don’t feel secure.

Weren’t suspecting that precise discetion of meaning, were you? Just follow me.
As a little girl growing up in the South there’s this chivalric idea that men “take care” of women. And I don’t mean this in the kitten-up-the-tree sense. I mean it in the open-the-door, buy-me-a-drink, feed-a-guy-a-knuckle-sandwich-when-he-disrespects-me kinds of ways. This is a fairly natural occurrence in the South that men “look out for” women. It’s a sign of respect. It says “I respect that you are different than me and I honor your beauty and grace and your ability to give me a smart tongue lashing if I don’t act right.”

Here’s a beautiful example.

Rebecca, Sarah and I spent about three days in New Orleans painting, eating gumbo and having coffee at Café du Monde. We came back to their house in Hattiesburg one afternoon, lounged around and had some more coffee, tea before going out that evening to have dinner at a New Orleans themed restaurant. It was for more gumbo if you must know. If you had grown eating your Grandmother’s gumbo but as an adult didn't get it very often, you’d understand. We didn’t bother showering, we probably freshened up, but suffice it to say that we didn’t doll ourselves up for the meal. So, near the end of the meal the waitress says “Ladies, make sure save some room. The gentleman who was sitting at that table bought you three desserts.”

Now, some of you that are either Yankees or from a foreign country (besides England or Spain) might think this is creepy. Let me translate his actions for you: “Beautiful women. I don’t mean to disturb you but I want to honor your beauty and your grace. Let me buy all three of you dessert.” Now, as I said before, we looked rather rode-hard-and-put-up-wet. What you are probably beginning to understand (if you are from the South, you already know), is that beauty has a large meaning. In fact, all women, by sheer fact that they are women, are beautiful. As clumsy as they may actually be, Southern Gentlemen realize that women are indeed full of Grace. When he opens the door for you, that is what he is saying to you: "You are the embodiment of Grace. Allow me."

That’s what Daddys do for daughters. They tell them they are beautiful and meant to be honored. And they give them money.

My Daddy wasn’t very good at telling me that I was beautiful or honored. Oh, sometimes he was good at it, but mostly he wasn’t. Actually, mostly he was very bad at it. But I’m not here to talk about all the times he got it wrong. What I miss are the times he got it right.

Like when he told me the skirt I was wearing was very pretty.

Like the time he said “I love you,” to me first on the phone.

Like the day, after he had started getting really ill, I could hear him yelling in the background: “I want to talk to my baby!”

Like all the times he called me “Sweet.”

Now there is no one to tell me that I’m sweet or graceful or that I am loved. I’m wondering if it’s true. There is no one to call me “Sweet.” No one to say to me “Hey Baby!” when he picks up the phone to talk to me.

That leaves me feeling a great loss. Lost. Wandering. Wondering. I don’t always know who I am or that I’m honored. There is no one to honor me. I feel . . . insecure.

No one tells you about the insecurity that creeps in like a slug and settles in your brain, your heart. I wonder if you pour salt on it, will it start to melt? That’s an idea.

I’ll let you know if it works.

In the meantime, I’ll talk to my Mommy and ask her for money and see how far I get.

Oh, and, can you pass the salt?