Broken Open

Privately being strangled by my own grief, in blackness, I moved around the very people who survived "our loved ones suicide" in total SILENCE. I can remember standing next to a relative or friend when Brett's name was being mentioned. What came next was a quick are you okay look, or are you going to break look. The distortion of grief prevented them from being able to see me giving them the same look. As if somehow my mothers’ badge gave me grief preference. It didn’t. Grief was tearing through them as well. How could it not, they were all in love with the very same person I was in love with. He was one of us; he belonged to all of us! When I got “the look”, I stood up straighter, fake-smiled brighter, and moved in closer in hopes one of us would find the courage to initiate a deeper conversation about our suffering. That dialogue never came.

Our silence is finally over. It's been twenty days since the release of my book Grateful For Grief Seasons of Transformation. I am proud to say the book has created an outburst within the first demographic I aimed for. That would be my Tribe (my family and close friends).


THEY ARE BROKEN OPEN!

There are tears.............finally
There are assumptions.......finally
There are questions.........finally
There are answers...........finally
There are hugs and kisses...finally
There is laughter...........finally

Finally…………There is no more grief silence
Finally …….......WE ARE HEALING TOGETHER!

“I affirm that my book and more healing is on the way to the entire world who I consider an extension of my tribe. Surviving grief isn’t enough; it’s time to heal from grief.” ~Monique Antoinette

Marie Osmond is my sister!

After mailing 6 copies of my book to Oprah Winfrey and 3 to Tyler Perry yesterday, I returned to my tivo. Marie Osmond speaks out about her son's suicide is the caption. A wave of OMG rolls in. Really, is this really happening? Without another pause I mash down on the play button.

Marie's wet eyes are filled with vulnerability and a plea for Miss Winfrey to be gentle in how she extracts "the story". My heart rate slows down to a low rhythm, previously recorded on my cardiovascular tivo six years ago after surviving the suicide of my only son.
My entire insides remember the difficulty of allowing a simple thing like air travel where it need be in order to deliver human speech.
"It's been 8 months”, leaves her mouth.
At my 8 month mark, I was still in zombie land.

She continued speaking and my body continued remembering. Marie's mommy voice pierced my cold belly-go-numb-reflex spot. That's the spot that never leaves you, no matter how long it's been since the day you received what your mommy body already knew was true; your child died, and you weren’t there.

I rage with an extreme impulse to slam my body into the glass of my large living room window when Marie tells us she prepared her son's body for his funeral! Someone or something puts weight on my shoulders which keeps me glued to the couch before this impulse has an opportunity to live. I continue watching without sound in my ears. I remember visiting the mortuary and burial arrangements. I mash down on the stop button. I inhale, and then exhale slowly. That’s it…..I’m done!

I know that regardless of Marie and me never meeting each other, we are forever members of the same club. We are exactly the same, in this exact time and space because of grief. She is my sister! She is my family!

I love you Marie Osmond. I pray for your hurting, healing spirit as you carry yourself through this enormous storm! You are loved!
~Monique Antoinette