The Photo Album

I am fascinated by the powers of the mind.  The mysteries and capabilities of it astound me.  The unconscious is just one of the incredible aspects of the mind that we don’t understand.  The unconscious holds all the secrets.  It teaches, confuses, and nurtures me.  

               It is easy to overlook the unconscious.  Other than paying attention to a weird dream, many people ignore it.  Yet, paying attention to my unconscious helped me survive after my mother's death.  It was rather odd circumstances, but my grieving was an odd experience.  My unconscious gave me just what I needed, when I needed it.  

We were not permitted to view my mother after she died.  I suppose if we had insisted, they would have let us.  But the funeral parlor was vehement that we “remember her as she was.”  We didn’t know better.  Certainly, there was a part of us that did not want to see her dead.    

Not having seen her dead ate at me over the weeks.  Denial works in funny ways.  Not seeing my mother dead, made it harder to believe.  She had been the constant rock in my life.  How could she be gone in an instant?  There was a little part of me that thought maybe she wasn't dead.  Maybe this was all a big lie.  Maybe she was imprisoned somewhere and needed help.  None of this makes sense, but the heart doesn’t have to make sense.  I was a boy longing for his mother.  I held on to the idea that she might not be dead.  

This stalled my mourning.  Rather than dealing with the pain, I held on to the idea that maybe she wasn’t dead.  It gave me an excuse to avoid the grief.  On some level I knew it was a stretch, but my heart wanted it.  Then my unconscious solved the problem for me.  It gave me a dream that answered my heart.   

I had a dream that I was talking to the police detective in charge of my mother’s murder case.  In the dream we were talking about death, when he asked me if I had ever seen pictures of dead babies.  I had not.  He held out his hand.  In it was a stack of polaroid pictures.  When he handed them to me, I accidentally dropped them.  The pictures fell to the ground and spread out like pick-up-sticks.  On the top of the pile was a picture of my mother.  She was dead.  I could see her as clearly as if someone had handed me a real picture.   I could see her injuries.  The image seared into my mind.  For the rest of my life, when I think of my mother being dead, I will see that image. 

I woke up in horror.  Seeing her dead was gruesome and painful.  It seemed cruel to have to face it.  Only over time did I realize what an incredible gift this was to my grieving.  It was one more step in putting her to rest and allowing me to let go.  My unconscious gave me a picture of my mother, allowing me to move forward with my healing.