This past week a book I was reading introduced a thought into my head that I’ve never grieved for the loss of a past life of mine. Specifically, my rave and DJ days.
There’s no question that period of my life held a lot of trauma for me and took me some time to get over. That’s part of the reason it took me 14 years to complete my memoir. I always saw the completion of that book and being able to tell my story the way it needed to be told as putting it all to rest, finally.
But what if there’s a difference between telling my story, and actually allowing myself to grieve the loss of it?
This thing that I had created and loved, that was such a big part of my life, came to an end. I ended it in the most gentle and triumphant way possible, but it was still a decision I was forced into by external factors and the opportunities that weren’t there for me anymore.
I’m very practiced in gratitude, and generally an optimist, so I’ve become grateful for the twists and turns my life has given me that put me in the position I am today. I’d never trade where I am for anything, AND something is holding me back today. There’s a voice in me that says “You have no reason to be unhappy – cheer up!” And that isn’t fair either. I’m willing to entertain the idea of grieving for my old life.
Like an athlete who has an injury and their professional career is over forever, I feel the same way. It isn’t about reliving or returning to anything. That old life is gone.
One of the exercises was to create a list of all my bitter feelings about it. I filled over a page. It was surprising to me how much bitterness laid there that I could articulate. There was a palpable difference between recounting old stories, and actually allowing myself to admit how bitter I was about something.
I know from my past work that it’s powerful for me to get thoughts off the page and speak them. So I read them to someone. I allowed myself to be bitter and angry as I spoke them. And I cried.
These are old wounds, but wounds nonetheless. And I’ve been carrying them with me all this time.
The next exercise was better. It was about writing out all the things I loved about my old life. It was fun seeing how much minutiae was in there. Things like handing out flyers or walking around downtown visiting my ticket outlets. Nothing felt like work. It was all enjoyable.
The point of these bitter and loving exercises is to see if my heart can be freed, and that some of these hooks from the past can be released and allow me to move on properly. Or even allow me to reintegrate what was great about then into something new.
And I do feel lighter. We can only see where this takes me next.
