Sleepless, 14 years later
Backyard sunflowers
I didn’t sleep at all last night. I have suffered from insomnia for decades. It ebbs and flows, but I usually have trouble sleeping when I’m anticipating an important date. The 14th anniversary of Hannah’s death is today, which explains my long night.
After Hannah died, I prayed to close my eyes, fall asleep, and never wake up. I didn’t want to continue to live in the physical world. If it weren’t for Bill and our kids, I may have tried to figure out an exit strategy. That may sound unbelievable, but if you’ve ever lost a child, you’ll understand what I mean. Especially given how much I loved my daughter.
Today, I feel a lot different. I no longer dream of an eternal sleep, although more restful nights would be nice. I am stronger and more resilient than I was when I turned 51, the year Hannah left. I haven’t found a permanent cure for my sleeplessness, which I know is in part born out of my grief. But it may also be stem from something deeper in my soul, where unconsciously I knew struggle.
With my astrologer’s hat on, the symbolism in my karmic story suggests that I knew battle in a former life. According to my friend, teacher, and mentor, Steve Forrest, who has studied my birth chart, it appears as if in more than one lifetime I was the one in charge, ordering soldiers into harm’s way. In this leadership position, I had to make tough decisions, carry a huge burden of responsibility, see the greater good, make sacrifices, and sacrifice my own desires. I can’t recall those experiences, but I’ve certainly felt a connection to my veteran Dad and the ancestors who came before him who fought in wars. The only remnants of that past life that I feel now are a quickness to anger and a competitiveness in a sports arena.
In this life, the battlefields have been different. I’ve been called to sit on the sidelines and watch while those that I’ve loved have gone into battle, risking their own lives, whether they chose the path or not. Hannah and my mom went kicking and screaming to their deaths, and eventually ceded defeat. I was not in charge of their fights, and it nearly killed me. I hated not being the one in control. In the course of this lifetime, I’ve had to learn patience, vulnerability, and a different kind of courage. In the spirit of seeking peace, not war, I’ve had to lean on friends and family as means of support when going it alone was too difficult. My objectives now are to follow my heart, to feel, to rely on others, and to maintain my loving relationships.
I’ve come to learn that some lifetimes are about learning courage and standing up for myself; others are about letting go and accepting that I am not in charge. Both can be difficult, both have their own learning curves, and both can indicate our soul’s intention in this life, which I believe we signed on to before this incarnation.
Thanks to the battles I have witnessed in this life, I’m a stronger version of myself since Hannah left. In my last post in honor of Hannah’s birthday, I mentioned that I’d learned some coping strategies to deal with my grief. Here are the main ones:
Taking care of myself through a healthy diet, exercise, daily dog walks, reading, gardening, and even naps when the previous night has been sleepless. I’ve also been running for over 25 years, inspired by my brother who became my running partner for a while. I’ve discovered this exercise has been a great release, a savior to my sanity, and a means of staying fit and strong. I don’t run nearly as fast or as long as I used to, but I’m proud that my body can still carry me.
Nurturing friendships that have been my guiding lights, my support, and my heart’s strength.
Without these relationships I may have rushed to that exit ramp.
Fostering a spiritual life – I’d like to say I meditate or pray regularly, but I can’t honestly say that I do. My self-care activities, along with talking to Hannah, have been the spiritual practices that feed my soul.
Learning to say no when the task was not meaningful or joyful to me and yes to the work and activities that made me smile. By extending a helping hand to others, I’ve discovered that it’s brought me more joy and more purpose than the effort required.
Writing down my thoughts and feelings has been a way to find peace, and settle the loud voices of worry, fear, and sadness in my head.
Accepting that not every child has a clear and direct path to independence. I’m learning that all children are on their own paths and that I cannot dictate the way or the timeline. And I certainly can’t know how long their life will be.
Grieving with others who need the support. Somedays I feel like I’m surrounded by death. But given that I’m familiar with the territories of death and dying, I’m less afraid to approach the subject with others who are hurting. I’ve learned that it’s okay to cry on another’s shoulder and to be there for them when they need. In the process of supporting my friends and even strangers, I can remember, be sad, and be grateful for the time I got to hold Hannah’s hand.
I can’t cure my grief. I can only rely on daily practices that ease the pain. Perhaps I wrestle with those demons when I can’t sleep.
Back to the sleeping problem…I’m often amazed at how I can still function after a night of no sleep. My need to work must be greater than my need for sleep. As my preferred VP candidate says, “I can sleep when I’m dead.” That urge to do something is the opposite of how I felt when Hannah died, when I didn’t want to do a thing. Back then, I would close my eyes and hope that she would at least come to me in my dreams. I seldom dream of Hannah these days, but I know she’s there if I need to talk. Today I would tell her that I still miss her, I will always love her, and I hope she’ll come visit me when I sleep.