pain and health

My grandma has always been a strong woman. She's not had a piece of cake life; actually, she's had more than her share of grief to deal with, as anyone would if they lost one of their children. But she keeps going, she perseveres, she puts on a face of faith & strength, even in the midst of her grief. My mother was similar, in many ways. She and I shared this impulsive part of our personality, infused with nervous energy. But my mom didn't break down in public. Even when she was sick with cancer, she continued to go to work at her new management job at Cincinnati Bell & put on her game face for several months until the disease forced her to quit.

The past few years have held my own shares of pain & grief. I won't detail them here. Some of them are well-known to my friends; some of them come from many years past. The point is, I learned how to put on my game face a long time ago from my two masters. I learned that being a blubbering idiot about your grief gets you nowhere -- that people lose respect for you, that you don't appear strong, and that strength is the defining characteristic of a worthy woman.

Unfortunately, in the past year and half, life keeps piling on the grief. Each month, each moon, more grief, more loss. And I'm left now wondering where I have put it all? It keeps simmering far too close to the surface for my comfort level. It keeps bubbling over at inopportune times, try as I might for it to stay in the pot. Where have I put it? Where should I put it?

I often address my problems visually, a trick I learned long ago when I had to deliver public speeches in college. If I imagined myself at the podium, delivering my speech to a spellbound audience, natural and relaxed, with perfect comedic timing, my speech went pretty well. If I imagined myself crashing and burning, I would leave the podium embarrassed.

Last night, I was talking to an old friend on the phone when lo and behold, here came those pains, pushing their way out the top. I actually hung up the phone with her, told her I'd call her right back. I was frustrated. I didn't care for them at the moment. I visually saw myself, asked myself, to push them back where they belong, which in my mind's eye, was somewhere in my belly area. Then I became concerned. How long have I been pushing them into my belly? What implications might that have now, or in the long-term. I decided I needed somewhere else for them, and mentally went through my body parts. Brain? No. Heart? No way! I'd have a heart attack eventually? So I started thinking of less important body parts, in the grand scheme. Legs? Uh-uh. I want to walk. Hands? No, I need to be able to work.

I was then even more concerned. If I didn't even feel right about giving my grief to my hands, why on earth was I pushing them to my bellly? Had I been pushing these feelings to very detrimental places all my life? Even if this has had no discernible consequences up until now, when will it? Of course, I fear it may have already.

So I thought about giving my feelings to the chair I was sitting in. Let them drip out the bottom. But I immediately rejected the idea, because I love the chair I was sitting in & I didn't want it to become a big chair of negativity. OK, now you may be laughing, but what struck me is this: I love the chair enough not to give it my negative feelings but not my body?

In the end, I went to bed wondering where to put them? Where to push them to? The best I could come up with is to give them to God. But how does one do that exactly?