I must admit that I am feeling sad today.  I have actually been feeling sad a lot lately…which sounds dramatic now that I am writing it out. Depression is not a new thing for me. I’ve struggled with it since my teenage years. However, I have weeks (or months) where it is worse than others, and this fall has proven to be one of those times. I think a lot of it is associated with the loss of my grandfather back in June and my grandmother in September (amongst other stressors that have proven to be out of my control). 

I’ve never been one to fear a lot of rational things.  I’m not scared of heights or spiders or walking home in the dark. I love rollercoasters, scary movies, seeing new parts of the world, and anything that gets my adrenaline going. I love a good, spontaneous adventure. I do not live my life in a way that consciously avoids “dangerous” things.  I have always been of the mindset that not doing something because you are afraid of it (or what might happen) is not a good enough excuse. If I avoided things simply because I was scared of them, what kind of life would I be living? How many new experiences would I miss out on? Now, that is not to say that something bad won’t happen to me. I am aware that life can take unexpected turns. However, I try not to live my life worried about the bad and instead try to focus on the good. Because truthfully, some really good things often come out of those we fear the most. 

Losing my grandmother in particular has made me realize that I do have a lot of fears, they are just not rational. They are deep emotional fears rooted in a pit of insecurity. The kind of fears that keep me up at night because they seem unending.  Love, in all of its shapes and forms, is a large fear of mine. More specifically, losing love. While I know that I have many people in my life who love me, I do not know if there is another person on this earth who is capable of loving me the way my grandmother loved me. My parents are probably good contenders, but even my Mimi gave them a run for their money. She got me in a way that no one else did. She saw me in a way that no one else could. I went through a really difficult time in college, and on my worst days I would often call her because I knew hearing her voice would make me feel better. Would make me feel whole again. Everytime, before we would hang up, she would say something along the lines of, “I love you for you. Even the versions that hurt. Even the versions you are ashamed of. I see them all. And I still love you.” 

I don’t really know how to make sense of the fact that she is gone. That I can’t call her and ask about her day.  How to live with the fact that I no longer have her love in my life. I have the memory of it, but she herself is gone. Where does all of that love go? And I realize that I am lucky to be mourning a woman who lived 87 amazing years. That so many people lose their loved ones unexpectedly and far too young. That the world is a cruel and unfair place for so many. But just because she was old does not mean her death has not been painful for me. That a part of me will grieve the absence of her until the day I die. That it has left me feeling the loneliest I have ever felt. I am scared of love because losing her has made me realize how fleeting love, in its most pure form, can be. That one day it can all go away, and you are left with the mere remembrance of it. It causes me to wonder if I’ll get to have another version of love like that in my life. The version that loves me because I am simply me. Or if that was it. 

I think I am someone who, unfortunately, cares way too much about how others view me. That is probably my other emotional fear: rejection. Quite frankly, I have so many days where I just don’t feel like I’m enough. Where I don’t feel pretty enough, skinny enough, funny enough, smart enough. Days where I simply don’t feel worthy. Or that I am a good and decent person. That even though I am pushing myself to be more real and vulnerable (hence why I’m starting to let others read my writing) that I still feel incredibly anxious about how people will view this ultra sensitive side of me. It is not attractive to be self-conscious. I know that everyone feels bad about themselves at some point or another, but I do believe I let my insecurities get the better of me. That I let them stay and consume me for much longer than I ought to. That sometimes I’m too exhausted to fight them, and I just allow myself to believe them in full. Sometimes, I really hate that about myself. That I feel everything so deeply. 

My grandmother also suffered from this “inner critic” which is why we had such a special connection. I think she spent many years of her life struggling to feel like she was enough. She didn’t always have someone to tell her that she was loved and cherished the way I had her. It’s funny how much you learn about your parents and grandparents the older you get. When you are young, you don’t realize that they have lived entire lives before you even existed. It’s kind of incredible if you stop to think about it. Around the time I turned 20, I started to learn a lot more about my grandmother and the life she lived before my sister and I came into the picture. Much of it was good, but I now know that a lot of it was quite heartbreaking too. That is her story and not mine, so I will leave it at that. She once told me that becoming a grandmother was the best thing that had ever happened to her.  I like to think that my sister and I were God’s way of helping her to heal the parts that had remained broken for so long. Instead of spending the last 30 years of her life ruminating on the pain and disappointments of the previous 30, she was given the chance to create a new life for herself entirely. And that is just what she did. 

By the time I was born, my grandparents were no longer together, so it really was just Mimi doing her own thing. For the first time in her life she was free. Even though she lived 4 hours away, she still managed to be at every holiday, every dance recital, and every family vacation. As my sister and I got older and more members of our family were added to the picture,  Mimi became more like my partner in crime. Since becoming an adult, she has really been the person I spend the most time with during Thanksgiving and Christmas. I love the holiday season, but I would be lying if I didn’t acknowledge that part of me is dreading it this year. I am scared of how alone I will feel without her there. She used to tell me that until I found someone to spend my life with, she would be my person. That always made me laugh. 

I am sure that one day someone will come into my life who loves me the way my grandmother loved me. Who sees me, and all of my many flaws, and still chooses to love me. It may be romantic or platonic, but I am not so pessimistic as to believe I won’t ever feel that kind of love again. However, there is a small part of me that does fear it may not happen. That I may just be too much. Yet, I know she would be angry with me for thinking that way. So, I will do my best to shut those fears down. 

This will all probably sound like utter nonsense when I go back to read it. Or sound so dramatic that I erase it entirely and second-guess my aspirations to write. Basically, what I am trying to say is that I really miss my Mimi. I miss the security of knowing that everyone close to me could shut me out of their lives, but I would still have her to call and run home to. As much as she loved me, I hope she knows how much I loved her too. How much I will always love her. Perhaps one day I will get to show my own granddaughter that kind of love. How special would that be?