Around 10 years ago, I lost my best friend from high school. If you’ve been following this blog for a while, then you’ve probably read one dedicated to her; however, this week’s blog follows my current grief. I discuss coming to terms with all the emotions attached to the loss even after a decade, including survivor’s guilt, anger, and a hollowness. In this week’s blog, I share the conflicting and confusing feelings around the loss of a loved one and finding the courage to carry the pain without drowning in it. As much as I’m fond of my readers, it’s not easy making this part of my life accessible, but I’m choosing to do it, because I want to remind you that vulnerabilities and trauma don’t have to be dealt with on our own.
My friend, Rosemary, passed away under unclear circumstances. We lived in different cities, and I found out on Facebook that she was no more. I reached out to her on-again, off-again boyfriend at the time to find out what happened. He told me that she passed away unexpectedly (no shit, Sherlock) due to certain medication that didn’t sit well with her. The answer was so vague and questionable, but I was too shocked to go into prosecutor mode with him. My primary agenda in that moment was to get to Chicago for her funeral. All these years later, I still don’t know the cause of her death. She had her demons, so a part of me wonders if she had no fight left in her. Another part of me wonders if the story I was told was indeed true. I don’t know, and, truthfully, no answer will ever satisfy me.
At the time of her untimely death, I was numb and angry with her family and boyfriend who lived in the same city as her. I went to the funeral, but I sat all the way in the back and didn’t speak to anyone. I said my good-bye when it was time, and I left on the next flight back.
Rosie had a tumultuous childhood and life at home wasn’t easy. Somewhere, I blamed the circumstances around her passing on her family and boyfriend. I was angry and refused to speak to them, because it felt like they never gave her what she needed when she was alive. She was the parentified daughter in her family. As I look back, I realize that my judgment of her family was harsh and uncalled for. As a matter of fact, I am ashamed to have felt that way. After all, who the hell am I to judge anyone?
I carried the weight of this fury for years until a few weeks ago. Somewhere, I was mad at myself and guilty for not having been a better friend to her. I was disgusted with myself for not visiting her enough. So, it’s no surprise that I projected these emotions onto her family and the relationship she shared with them.
I don’t have too many regrets in life, because I have worked extremely hard to forgive and love myself. I’ve developed a perspective that every part of a life is a lesson and every incident, especially the difficult ones, leads to something better. Nevertheless, one of my biggest regrets is not spending enough time with Rosemary. I wish that I could have a do-over where I could hug her more, spend more time with her, appreciate her more, tell her on repeat that she was enough and how much I loved her. I was beyond lucky to have her in my life, and she was probably the only friend who has stood by me like a rock. I am infinitely confident that she would do the same for me today. Her loss is so profound, and that’s what it took to work through my issues to be a better friend to others and myself.
All the emotions surrounding her death came rushing back when her mother reached out to me out of the blue a few weeks ago. She’s visiting India for personal reasons and was kind enough to make contact. We chatted back and forth briefly but it was right before a long trip that I was taking, so I told her that maybe we could catch up more upon my return. She asked where I was going, and I told her that I was taking a vacation without mentioning where I was going until she specifically asked. Before I told her, I can’t tell you how long I sat on my reply, because all I could think about was her loss and how she would want the same for Rosemary. I get to travel and see the world, but her daughter doesn’t. I get to be happily married, but she doesn’t. I get to pursue my passion, but she doesn’t. It ate me alive to tell her anything about myself, because I could not stop feeling guilty for being alive. I wanted to apologize that I survived, and Rosie didn’t. Many a times, I have wished that I could trade places with Rosie, because I believed that she had so much more to offer this world. As I’ve done my best to work through my grief. I have realized that that thought is futile. I brushed off all these thoughts as I prepared for my trip, but when I returned, so did they.
I dug in my heels and couldn’t get myself to make the phone call. For almost 10 days, I became adept at making up excuses to call her mother later. I kept the text exchanges with Rosie’s mom a secret. It was as if I was holding my breath and couldn’t release it. I didn’t know what to make of my feelings. The more I held on to this turmoil, the more I started feeling disconnected from myself. Feelings of being stuck and wanting to escape heightened, but I didn’t realize that the two were connected until one day, as I sat on my yoga mat, I bawled my eyes out.
In that moment, I accepted that I had to stop running away from these big feelings and call Rosemary’s mother no matter how she felt about me. I opened up to my husband, which helped and made me feel less burdened. My candid conversation with him strengthened my conviction to do the right thing this time and reach out as promised. That afternoon, I called her mom. There was no answer, so I messaged her to let her know that I’d reached out and we could catch up when she had some time to spare. I haven’t heard from her, but that doesn’t mean that I won’t contact her again. I’m in a better place to talk to her, to talk about Rosie, to talk about her absence, and my life.
Many of you might question this next bit of information, but I’ll tell you anyway. As soon as I made the phone call and walked back into my bedroom, I smelled roses. I’ve always associated roses with Rosemary, even though her name has entirely different meanings. I sniffed the entire bedroom and couldn’t find the source. The fragrance lasted a few seconds, and maybe it was all in my head, but it felt like I’d made her proud for once. The following day, as I was walking Coco, I spotted a beautiful black and yellow butterfly. Ever since her passing, I’ve felt Rosemary’s spirit in every butterfly I see. The one I saw that day is one I’ve never seen before, but it felt like the validation that I needed.
There are times when I dream about Rosemary, and no matter how hard I try to hold onto the feeling of having her back, it only lasts till I open my eyes. It’s been a long time since I dreamt of her, but I hope she shows up soon. It’s one of the strongest ways I feel connected to her.
I’ve come to realize that grief is complex and, as much as we want a finish line, there isn’t one. The memories, the emptiness, the ache, and everything else in between will reemerge when least expected albeit not that frequently. Once we experience loss, we are never the same person again. There is a permanent and poignant pang that’s dull on some days and roaring on others. What matters is accepting all of it and feeling every bit of it.
As always, I am here to support you all the way, my brave soul. I hope you keep in touch with your stories, thoughts, and feedback. If you wish to learn more, please stop by www.imperfectbodies.com. Lastly, if you enjoyed this information, then please share it with others.
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All the best,
Chaitni