Through The Eyes of Loss

By Elizabeth Charles

Loss and grief go hand in hand with one another like peanut butter and jelly. A strange comparison, but so true. When experiencing loss, one must allow themselves to work through the stages of grief. Some work it out quickly and move on, others take longer. It took me almost fi fty-nine years. Loss has followed me throughout my life and grief has become an old friend that has overstayed it's welcome. Only recently have I dealt with some of these losses that have held me back and caused me to make some egregious mistakes in my life. Some I am still paying the bill for. You wonder why you are "allowed" to go through things and endure such pain. I had to stop abusing myself and ask, "God what are you trying to teach me? Why, why, why?" The answer was obvious, "Now, that you have been taught, it's time to teach others." I wrote this book in order to help others recognize grief and a road map to find a path to hope. God forgives. Humans have to learn to forgive. People hold it over their own heads, and still others will use it to beat you over your own head in order to control you. You have to recognize the diff erences. I have taken a leap and put my sorted past out there for the masses in order to help others.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Covenant Books, Inc.
• Release date: Sep 12, 2017
• ISBN: 9781640030190

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Through the Eyes of Loss

Elizabeth Charles

ISBN 978-1-64003-018-3 (Paperback)

ISBN 978-1-64003-019-0 (Digital)

Copyright © 2017 Elizabeth Charles

All rights reserved

First Edition

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods without the prior written permission of the publisher. For permission requests, solicit the publisher via the address below.

Covenant Books, Inc.

11661 Hwy 707

Murrells Inlet, SC 29576

www.covenantbooks.com

Table of Contents

Dedication

Foreword

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Epilogue

About the Author

Dedication

This book is dedicated to my therapists, Angela and Sebrina, who gave me the courage to write my story. To my son, the chosen one, who has always believed in me; and to my husband, who has tried to love me through it. But most of all, to God, for allowing me to go through this in order to help others.

Foreword

The art of losing isn’t hard to master; so many things seem filled with the intent to be lost that their loss is no disaster. Lose something every day. Accept the fluster of lost door keys, the hour badly spent, the art of losing isn’t hard to master.

Then practice losing farther, losing faster; places, and names, and where it was you meant to travel. None of these will bring disaster.

I lost my mother’s watch. And look! My last, or next-to-last, of three loved houses went. The art of losing isn’t hard to master.

I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster, some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent. I miss them, but it wasn’t a disaster.

Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture I love) I shan’t have lied. It’s evident the art of losing’s not too hard to master though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.

—Elizabeth Bishop

This book is me, a work in progress. It is a book that will never be truly finished, but whose life is; that is until you die. I am hoping my journey will help others; especially if you are going through turmoil, loss, death of a loved one, bad relationships, abuse, and codependency, or like me, a combination of several; and you just don’t know what to do. All the aforementioned experiences happened to me. I lived it and through it. It is written in a stream of consciousness format and I have not identified anyone in the book, I guess in order to protect the guilty. I identify them only through a number sequence.

In my ongoing counseling, I am learning things about myself that has been eye opening. I have been officially diagnosed with depression, anxiety, and Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD); an impairment that society only attributed to soldiers returning from battle. But, life in and of itself is a battle and sometimes all-out war, but trauma to one’s psyche is still trauma just on different levels. At a low point in my life, I realized that I needed help; that my problems and issues were just too much for me to take on by myself. But, in order to heal, you have to realize what has hurt you in the first place, and you might be surprised, as I was, that it may not come from the same starting point you thought it did. I had to admit that I was too weak to help myself. Something no one likes to admit. You have to muster the courage to do it. Courage, prayer, and the belief that God is going to see you through it.

My story is one that is plagued with ongoing loss over a fifty-nine-year span. Physical loss, mental loss, as well as, spiritual loss; I do not know which one is worse. PTSD, anxiety, a horrific accident, and ongoing depression has impaired my memory of certain events, some I have pieced together from relatives, but some are very vivid, and some are so deeply buried that I do not know what would happen if they resurfaced, but by writing this book, I have had to face some ugly truths about myself and others.

Ultimately, we are all supposed to be accountable for our own lives and mistakes; I have learned late in life, to own them, and not hide them, because the experience has made you who you are; for better or worse. I hid a great deal of it from my husband because I didn’t want to be judged, and I was truly ashamed of it. I was afraid he would not accept me for it, and worse, didn’t want to give him ammunition to use against me when we had an argument of some kind; so much for trust. That’s a mistake; you should always be forthcoming about your past, even if you lose that person because if someone truly loves you, they have to love the dark side of you as well as the good part of you. The key to being totally free is to love yourself. I do not know if I truly love myself yet, and I wonder if I will ever be released from those bonds that continue to hold me back so that I can move on and love myself. But as you read this, you are reading through the eyes of loss. My loss. My pain. I wrote this book in order to help others through their own losses and pain.

Chapter 1

February 1966

There is a land of the living and a land of the dead and the bridge is love the only survival, the only meaning.

–Thornton Wilder

The wind blew the hair back from my face as the rain and distant thunder began to roll in from the west, ringlets of my otherwise straight hair began to absorb the droplets of water, that my mother had so carefully coiffed that morning. Now, like all of our lives, it had turned into a matted mess. The heavily laden hairspray did nothing to hold the curls, as it had been advertised to do. The pelting rain meshed with the tears that began to roll down my cheeks. Finally, I was able to cry, but I didn’t know what I was crying for because tomorrow I would wake up and it would have been a dream. I was overwhelmed with what was happening. Everyone said I had youth on my side, and I would eventually get over it. Wrong. This kind of loss one never gets over. Death.

I vaguely remember looking down at all the flowers that had covered the ground, there were so many of them, and the sweet aroma of carnations and the pungent smell of mums that I now associate as a true indication of death and funerals; something that will forever be permeated into my mind. I can’t smell a carnation or mum to this day without waves of sadness crashing through my soul; but somehow, roses are okay. Roses represent hope and love, to me, even though they were woven into the sprays of flowers from well-wishers and other mourners who had sent them. I guess by their gestures of sending flowers, I could take that as we were loved and not to give up and maintain hope for the future. At that time, I didn’t know why I chose to associate the flowers the way that I did. After months of therapy, I now know why. Hope for the future… what a crock of shit!

I watched as they lowered that silver box that encapsulated my father and subsequently sunk him into the ground. As it was being covered by fresh dirt, the sprays of flowers were literally being tossed over and upon it; the workers not noticing a little blonde girl standing there watching them do something they do every day; after all, it was their job, they did it without thinking of who may have been watching or the fact that it was my father they so carelessly tossed the floral sprays like sacks of garbage. The rain began to infuse the freshly laid dirt, that when chemically mixed, had a mildewed odor to it, like your grandmother’s root cellar or a dirt floored basement; a sign of things to come for me; sadness and decay. Suddenly, a strong hand was applied to my arm. I looked up to find my aunt, my mother’s older sister, rattling me from my thoughts, as she pulled me away from the grave and said it a mixed northern/southern accent, you don’t need to see that. She was the only one at that time that had the mental fortitude to do and say what had to be done and said, but she was up to the challenge. During this tragedy, she had become the family matriarch. I loved her so much and miss her to this day.

The graveside service was a blur, as well as the funeral itself, except when the honor guard shot the long guns, as my father had served in the Navy, which jolted me back to reality only to hear the crying, grief-stricken sisters; and a mother, who fainted throughout the entire service from obvious shock, and a distraught wife, all who would never got over the sudden departure of the man that they loved leave them too soon and with a mess of responsibilities to deal with. I guess no one ever prepares thoroughly enough for their final departure, especially one so sudden and unexpected. At my tender age, I didn’t understand the finality of what death was, let alone the consequences that followed. After all, I was only seven years old.

With stammering lips and insufficient sound, I strive and struggle to deliver right the music of my nature

–Elizabeth Barrett Browning

Seven-year-olds are supposed to be playing with their dolls and riding their bikes around the neighborhood and occasionally dreaming of becoming doctors, lawyers, nurses, or journalists, but not burying their father. Death was for old people, not 38-year-old husbands and fathers who had a lifetime to spend with the ones that he obviously loved. Rites of passage, such as homecoming dances, proms, first dates, and a walk down the aisle as the father of the bride. Young men had missed the opportunity to be intimidated by a strong father who took his daughter out on a first date; and recitals, graduations, football games, and everything parents relish seeing their children do. Instead, my mother got a lifetime of heartache and broken children who never really knew their father and would forever be impacted by it. Some of us, me, would eventually reach therapy level and be diagnosed with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD), with a splash of anxiety on the side. Something I struggled with my whole life and never knew what was wrong with me. Like many people, I thought PTSD was only for soldiers returning from war; not fifty-eight-year-old women, who had lived life; not the life I dreamed of living, but a life nonetheless.

In my young mind, my life would never be the same again. I was forced into the world of grown up pain and grown up financial problems, my childhood as I had known it was over. There would be no more PTA presidents in my world, no more fund-raisers that my dad was famous for, Barbeque ribs that had been doused with his own signature BBQ sauce, bake sales, snow cone sales, dance recitals, and debasing himself in what they called a womanless wedding. It was as it says, it was… womanless, because the men dressed as brides, bridesmaids and the like. Imagine my confusion at seeing my father in a dress, hat, heels and makeup. It was terrifying. All in the name of raising much needed funds for a small country school. I think he only did it once, that was enough, but the real women were having a ball at the men’s expense! By today’s standards children are accustomed to these things as reality. But, in my day, men wore trousers and used men’s only restrooms. The only thing I did know that my parents were in love with one another and they were the best parents a little girl could ask for. Now, it wasn’t perfect by any means; I witnessed my share of arguments and got my share of tongue-lashings and spankings, but that was the price of doing business back then. When you screwed up, you got the belt or the hand and if you were at your grandmother’s house, it was whatever they had on hand, such as a wooden spoon, broom, razor strap; you get the meaning.

A couple weeks passed and my mother had to face the future of being a widow with responsibilities she could not fathom. After I had returned to school, even the relationships with my friends, kids whom I had known most of my life had changed. I had missed a couple of weeks of school as a result of my father’s death. After my two-week hiatus, I returned to school; my friends didn’t know what to say to me, so they just kept their distance, or now that I think about it, maybe it was me pushing them away. Afterwards, for years to come, I felt different than the other children. I didn’t feel like I had anything in common with them anymore. Their families were whole; mine was broken. My safety net had snapped and broke, that left me tumbling in a spiral of defeatism, never to be fixed again. as I continue to feel that way in adulthood. It’s hard to accept that it was by your own hand that you are defeated. My father’s death did nothing to prepare me for anything positive in my life. I always look for the next shoe to drop.

I recall being despondent in my third grade class and being paddled by a hefty teacher in front of the class room before all of my peers, paddling me for not responding to a question that I never heard asked of me in the first place. Now, that was humiliation. At the time, I just didn’t care. That would set me on a downward spiral and really. I also learned to hate authority figures and establishment rules; after this experience I would learn to question everything. Eventually, it made for one hell of a journalist, but did nothing for relationships. That teacher was one of many who would disappoint and set me up as an example to others to show them what could happen if you failed to listen to instructions. It was all part of that pull yourself up by your own bootstraps and move on with your life mentality, that not only applied to adults, but children as well. Grief counselors were unheard of and safe zones were nonexistent. I do not know if it would have really made a difference if they had been in existence.

It would be years later before I would realize who I was and what my mission in life was supposed to be. But, the memory of losing the one person who I could count on—my security, my protector, and whom I adored,—had already taken a toll on me and it had been two weeks since I last saw or talked to him. I never got to say goodbye or to tell him how he was truly loved. This coming from a little girl who had trust issues to begin with, because I was adopted when I was thirteen months old and had been with a teenaged mother who didn’t know how to parent; didn’t know you were supposed to actually pick the baby up and cuddle it; she took an alternate route that I will explain later. But, the man I would come to know as Daddy, would be the greatest thing that ever happened to me and the worst all in a course of seven years. I loved that man with all my heart and soul. Why did he leave me? What had I done that was so bad that God had to take him away from me? I didn’t understand it then and I don’t understand it now. But what I do know is it affected my life dramatically, and not in a positive way, because I allowed it to. It would affect my relationships with men and my relationship with my mother. I was damaged and no one back then knew how to deal with it. My mother tried, but she had her own grief to contend with. Children were seen and not heard. The heard part being definitive.

Back in the mid-1960s as I mentioned earlier, there were no safe zones, grief counselors, or support groups, but I was a child that was forced into adult reality and ugly truth; death. Death was a grown-up concept of which, for me, was no escape. You just took the cards you were dealt and went on, put your pain on a back burner for later, if ever, to deal with, but now I am ready, hence this publication. Counselors and psychiatrists are benefiting from it now, as some of us can now afford ongoing therapy. If only I had been allowed to properly grieve and talk about it, maybe I wouldn’t be a hostage to my own impairments. My mother was determined that we were forging on and my father was never talked about until I was an adult. I guess the subject of him was too painful for her to deal with as well. She had two children—yes, two—to take care of. The childless couple had had a child of their own.

The previous year, on or around my birthday in April, I was told I was going to be a big sister. I was so excited. A real live baby doll in the house. It seems my mother had gone from one doctor to another in order to try anything to conceive a child with my father. Then the miracle had happened; they were going to be parents again. But, there were risks and she took them. She had problems with high blood pressure and I guess the pregnancy had taken its toll on her body. She was in the hospital from early December until after Christmas. It seemed like it was taking forever for her to bring home the human baby doll. My brother was only two months old when my father passed away. He would never know his father. I feel guilty sometimes because I got seven years of memories and he was robbed of having any except through pictures and accounts from relatives.

I know he probably feels the same way. Robbed. Unlike me, he never talks about it, but rather absorbs any memory from any family member has of him. He remains silent, but I can see the hurt and sadness deep set in his eyes and I am distressed all over again. Even as a tiny baby, he was just as affected as I had been. His only outlet was to cry. I couldn’t cry for a long time and when I did, I didn’t realize I was crying; it just felt like water running down my face; I had suppressed and