Scary things

I'm scared.

Scary things are in my house. They are hiding behind one of the doors down the hall. They are different sizes, colours and shapes. These things are not meant to be scary- they are meant to be cute and happy and cozy. They are meant to be fun, even. But to me they are terrifying. So scary that they have to be contained in one room with the door shut tight.

These things would not scare you. I can almost guarantee it. You might see them and feel nothing at all. Because these things are just things. Products made in factories or by hand with various materials for a multitude of reasons. Some of the things are disposable, others made to be passed on to others. It's all just stuff.

I am scared of these things because I have attached meaning to them. I have done this since I was young, as most children do. Attachment doesn't have to be reciprocated- one can attach themselves to another person, a pet, or an object even though the feeling may not (or cannot) be returned. Sometimes an attachment is healthy, sometimes not. I used to attach meaning, or value maybe, on certain objects when I was young because they made me feel safe or happy. I remember forming attachments to things that were gifts from people I loved, because it made me feel close to them.

When I was pregnant with Caius, I studied Attachment Theory like crazy. I read about the Fourth Trimester, I searched for ways to create and maintain a strong bond with my baby. I reviewed the benefits of healthy attachment. After he was born I put it all to practice: skin to skin, cuddles and hugs, lots of "I love you's", smiles, baby massages, positive interactions...And it was easy, because he was just so lovely and awesome. I couldn't not do those things. I was instantly so attached to Caius. He was like my third arm- every where I went, he went. I didn't leave the house without him until he was six weeks old, and it was for two hours. The best part was that I felt it reciprocated. I felt it because Caius was very observant and aware, and the way he looked deep into my eyes told me so. When he started to smile, I really knew. Right before he left us, Caius was just started to hug back when I held him tight. The feeling of his chubby little arms pulling me in tight was everything. Our hearts pressed together, he would rest his little head on my shoulder. Attachment achieved.

Not only did I form a close attachment to Caius, I subsequently developed a bit of an attachment to things. Namely things that he used, wore, played with. Things that had been so carefully chosen for him. Things that were new, and others that had been enjoyed by cousins and uncles when they were younger. Material objects that now provoke so much fear it can be unbearable. Things that remind me of the little boy who enjoyed them.

The sadness is so heavy that I am scared to trigger a memory because I know the pain that will follow. I try to remind myself that the little monster-printed onesie folded on his change table is really only fabric cut and sewed into the shape of sleepers. But my heart remembers the little boy who wore them, the little boy whose legs used to kick in them, the little boy who used to pull his pajama feet in closer to see the smiling monsters sewed onto them. I tell myself the high chair in the corner is just pieces of wood with a plastic tray. But my heart remembers the little boy who was starting to eat more solid foods, the little boy who never spat out food (except for green beans that one time) and didn't like food on his face (a clean eater! I was so pumped). The little boy who would get so excited when he ate applesauce, the little boy who would get so wild and 'cwazy' that he would slap the tray and laugh, the little boy who smiled when I told him he was trouble while singing Ray Lamontagne's "Trouble". The little boy who was my whole life. One of my biggest challenges of daily life is the ever present and seemingly endless occurrence of triggers. Babies, Adidas tracksuit jackets, photos of Caius, the shower. Things I can't always avoid, things that seem to invite joyful memories and dark thoughts. I feel grief from these things because I have attached meaning and memories to them.

I receive so many uplifting and supportive messages every day from friends, family, and strangers from all over. A recent snippet from one really resonated with me: "grief is a magnified form of love - without love there is no grief". I instantly connected with this idea, and am trying to use this perspective to lessen the fear I am feeling. Through readings and self-reflection, I have realized that I although I think I am scared of the things that wait to be packed in Caius' room, I am actually scared of the intense grief that they stir up. So instead of attaching grief to the things, I will try to attach love. Instead of attaching sadness and loss to the things, I will try to attach happiness or gratitude. I will try and attach the feelings I created with Caius to the things he left behind. Maybe one day his little red jacket will just be a little red jacket, but for now it represents love. I am redirecting my loss of physical attachment to Caius to the things he used because he is no longer here. I know that one day I will have to detach from some things, but for now I will use them as symbols of love rather than grief.

Chantal