By Sascha Demerjian
I want to talk about screaming. I feel that in general we don’t talk about screaming enough and truthfully, when we do, it is with embarrassment and or regret. As in, I lost it and started screaming.
But last week, after the death of my mother concerns over my kids I felt so flooded, having been pulled under with the rip tide of grief, that I went to my bedroom and screamed.
I screamed like I have never screamed before. It was primal. It was like an emotional steam vent opened up and out came the scream. I wasn’t trying to scream. The scream was trying to get out.
I let it out. I didn’t lose myself. I found myself.
I did not question why I was needing to scream. I did not think, oh will people notice my grief and what will they think.
I just went with it. I let it out.
It came out with a force.
It felt cleansing. It felt scary.
I screamed a second time. I then collapsed on the floor, weeping like I haven’t in years.
Only then did the need for my scream register in words in my mind.
I was powerless. I have no control. My mother did what she was going to do all along. She died. She is gone.
Along with the frightening realization that much of this is true of parenthood too. As much as I like to think I have control over my children, really, I have but a limited sphere of control. They are their own people, with their own journeys an their own perspectives and they will go where they go. I have to let them.
Two screams. Twin horrors.
It made its way out. I was exhausted.
And after the sobbing subsided, I felt clear. I was lighter. The scream needed to be released.