One week ago, I learned the news of G-Mama, my biological grandmother's passing. I met her for the first time just 5 years ago. In fact, G-Mama was the first biological family member that I ever met.
Since posting this news on Facebook, I've received numerous well-wishes, including some private messages that alluded to the complexity of feeling that I may be experiencing given her unique role in my life. They empathically say; "I can only imagine how you must be feeling right now." Instead, of responding with the colloquial "Thank you," I'd like to respond by saying "It's hard for me to imagine, too!"
My path to meet G-Mama and the rest of my biological family was such a roller coaster. There were so many unforeseen twists and turns that once I was finally wholly accepted in to the family I could no longer recognize the ways in which the roller coaster was not yet over. Instead, I have continued along this ride with a joyful contentment - simply ecstatic to know my roots. In all honesty, I felt a sense of confusion when those around me were yelling to "slow down," screamed with delight, had to exit the ride or experienced debilitating sickness from all of the commotion. Strangely enough I have not felt any whiplash or dizziness throughout this time. My ride on this roller-coaster has been one of contented bliss.
With the death of the first biological family member that I have had the privilege of knowing, I suddenly feel as though I am free-falling and all is silent around me. It's quiet. Not necessarily sad, just quiet. Is that what numbness feels like?
I like to think of my brain as a pretty clever little machine. With this in mind, I like to give it the benefit of the doubt and surmise that it knows that this is too much to bear at this time, and thus is helping me remain able to work, play and go about my daily life. However, I can't help but wonder what forces are at play that may make grieving this loss too much to absorb. Why is my brain protecting me from feeling right now?