Julia Reesor's Blog

I grieved before I met grief.

As someone who has struggled with a sense of powerlessness in the face of the uncontrollable circumstances I encountered in my childhood, I had become accustomed to the idea of facing the inevitable before it happens.

As a child, I had developed a series of what I refer to as "backup plans" for moments when I would need them.

What would happen if I lost everything tomorrow? Well, I would do _____.

What would happen if I lost the person closest to me? Well, I would grieve like _____.

Given the lack of control I had in my childhood, I believed that by managing my own emotional reactions, I could navigate those situations more effectively. By leaning on my “backup plans” I was able to have full control over how I carried myself, how I presented myself, and how I prepared to face the inevitable.

This was my way of control over my emotions, preemptively preparing myself for one of the most challenging human emotions one can experience.

My personal experience with grief allowed me to go through the process of grieving in advance, long before grief itself found its way to me.

Leaning on my “backup plan”, I decided to go to my high school’s winter formal dance the night I met grief. I walked out of the hospital wearing an itchy dress that was equal parts uncomfortable as it was unflattering. I knew that the moment the dance was over, I would walk back into the hospital and go back to the life I lived behind closed doors.

I hadn’t met grief yet, and didn’t anticipate to meet death for a few more months.

I had time.

Time to pretend. Time to be okay.

Time to enjoy the last few months of the person I was no longer going to be, once grief shook my hand.

The dress I wore was too scratchy. The bass from the music was hurting my ears. The dance floor was tacky and made my heels stick. The pungent smell of alcohol was the strongest perfume in the air.

I was counting down the seconds until the dance would be over, and I could return to my impending grief.

Amongst the sweaty bodies engulfing me with their awkward dance moves, and the soft smiles from my classmates I had known since I was a little girl, a large clock to my right hit 8:00pm, and my body went into a trance.

I experienced tunnel vision, and had only one mission in that moment: To leave.

I turned towards the exit to grab my coat that my teachers insisted stayed in an empty classroom with the rest of the student’s coats. I always had my phone on me in case I would receive the phone call that the inevitable had happened. My too-scratchy dress didn’t have pockets, and I decided to leave my phone with my coat.

I walked away from the bass of the music that hurt my ears. I walked away from the dance floor that was tacky and made my heels stick. I walked away from the pungent smell of alcohol that made me feel nauseous with familiarity.

I found my coat and pulled out my phone to call a cab, and when my phone turned on, I had 27 text messages and 46 missed calls.

It was 8:04pm, I lost the person I was closest to, at 7:59pm.

I told myself that when I lost the person closest to me, I would grieve like ____.

And when grief came and extended its cold hand out to me, I did not grieve like ____.

I did the exact opposite of how my “backup plan” predicted I would grieve.

I was prepared for being stuck in endless sorrow, where I would feel a heightened sense of every human emotion one can feel. Love, anger, sorrow.

Yet, I wasn’t stuck in an endless sorrow, and my emotions weren’t heightened.

I didn’t feel — at all.

I had spent months before I anticipated the loss of the person closest to me, preparing for the day when their soul would be bound to the stars. Yet, when that day arrived, I had conditioned myself for so long to fit the mold outlined by my "backup plan" that I completely forgot how to feel.

It was as if a switch had been flipped, and every human emotion I had spent eighteen years feeling, no longer functioned.

I sat on the cold tile of the empty classroom, and looked at the snow falling outside the windows. I didn’t cry. I didn’t scream. I didn’t do any of what my “backup plan” had planned for me to do.

I just sat there.

A boy I used to have an innocent crush on when I was eight years old, came into the room to grab his coat and saw me sitting on the floor, looking at the snow falling. When he called my name, the only response I had for him was that I had met grief.

He sat beside me, and asked if I was okay.

And weirdly enough, I said yes. I was okay.

I wasn’t sad. I wasn’t angry. I wasn’t happy.

I was just, okay.

I spent the next eight months of my life, being just okay.

I returned to school the next day. I completed my assignments for school on time. I slept through the night. I was operating as if I had never encountered grief, although in a state of emotional numbness.

I wasn’t the same, and everyone who had known me before I met grief, could see that.

On the ninth month after I met grief, was when I grieved.

I was stuck in my sorrow. I was angry. I was bitter. I was stuck in my healing.

I had felt every human emotion associated with grief, the emotions I should’ve felt when I sat on the cold tile of that empty classroom at 8:04pm, on the ninth month.

Everything that I was feeling, was not what my “backup plan” anticipated I would feel.

I believe that grief comes in waves. It can swallow you when you hear a song being played in the grocery store. It can swallow you when you walk down the street and see a familiar park. It can swallow you when you see an old photo in your camera roll.

It can swallow you when you least expect it, despite being prepared.

It just swallows you.

Many often believe that grieving comes the minute you shake hands with grief, however, I see it as a lifelong process. You can grieve before you ever meet grief. You can grieve months after meeting grief. You can grieve years after meeting grief.

Grief remains a constant companion - it is with you, it is in you, it is you.

And there is nothing wrong with tapping into its feelings, hours, days, months, and years after you meet it. It doesn’t mean you’re broken or incapable of feeling the full effects of grief.

Whether you seek comfort in relying on your "backup plans" or opt to discard any semblance of a plan and simply embrace your emotions, your grief is uniquely yours.

Cry with it.

Hold it.

Love it.

Hate it.

Ignore it.

Feel it.

Just, feel it.

When you are ready to let it in.

All my love, always,

Julia Reesor

My mother was a vivid dreamer and a master storyteller.

Her stories from her childhood, teenage years, and early adulthood used to captivate me. She had a way of pulling you into her story, making you feel as though you lived that experience alongside her.

As a child, I would sit on her lap as she brushed my wet hair, and she would tell me a story. Whether it be rooted in a nightmare I had or a troubling experience I had at school, my mother had a way of soothing every terror, every heartache, and every sorrow with her enthralling stories.

I felt that with each story that was told, I was getting close to her.

I was gathering delicate pieces of her life, and placing them together to understand my mother to the fullest extent.

By the time I was eleven, I knew my mother like no other.

I knew why there was a scar on her knee. I knew why she loved the water. I knew why she believed in second chances.

I knew everything except that she was a narcissist, and many of her stories were rooted in fabrication.

By the time I was twelve, I knew nothing about my mother.

I knew that the scar on her knee was from a biking accident. I didn’t know what it was actually from.

I knew that she loved the water because it reminded her of growing up on the water. I didn’t know why she actually loved it.

I knew she believed in second chances because my father showed her they were real. I didn’t know the actual reason.

I came to understand that my mother’s stories were rooted in fictional tales she told to captivate those who listened, delicately stringing a web of stories that had no connection to one another for the purpose of intriguing the ears that listened.

With every story I reiterated from my mother, I was looked upon as a liar.

Where one story involved a family member of mine, the family member would meet the story told from my lips with confusion.

Where one story involved a conversation I had with my mother, my mother would meet the story told from my lips with confusion.

I specifically remember one instance where a bad case of lice was going around my primary school. I sat on my mother’s lap as she brushed my wet hair covered in Tea Tree Oil, and she told me how I was not able to have sleepovers with my friends until she checked them for lice.

It was an innocent statement. One I, being eight, agreed with and had no reason to doubt.

When I returned to school, I told my friends who invited me for a sleepover that I was unable to go until my mother checked them for lice. A simple reiteration of what my mother had told me only days before.

Being eight, I had no reason to lie. Not about lice, at least.

When the words from my mother’s lips circled back to the parents of my friends, they asked her about it.

Being thirty five, she had no reason to lie. Yet when it came to lice, she did.

With the lice statement I reiterated from my mother, I was looked upon as a liar.

And punished like a liar.

My mother used her storytelling ability as a weapon. She would tell the same story multiple times, changing small sections of her story to fit the narrative she was trying to convey. She would often forget which narrative she once told, which would result in her being so firmly rooted in the narrative she was telling in that moment that it would spark outrage and anger from her when her narrative was questioned.

It made everyone look like a liar. It made everyone question the truth behind her story.

Yet those who lent an ear to her stories and questioned its truth, found an escape from my mother and her narratives as they departed our home. They would cast her stories aside as they resumed their lives, and become free from my mother’s suffocating grasp.

I, on the other hand, was left in the house with my mother and her stories.

Constantly doubting her intentions. Constantly questioning her truth. Constantly suspicious of her genuineness.

Growing up in an environment where every step, every breath, every syllable, every tone, was questioned, curated a sense of false reality as a child. I grew to become skeptical of the truth, despite it being told from the lips that were not my mother’s.

I didn’t believe when my friends told me they went to Europe for the summer. Despite seeing pictures of it posted on social media.

I didn’t believe when my teachers told me I did well on an English essay. Despite seeing the marks in my report card.

I didn’t believe I was good enough. Despite outer voices telling me I was.

My life, and everything I believed to know, soon turned into a hall of mirrors each reflecting a different version of the truth. And as I grew older and began to become more aware of the falsities that surrounded each aspect of my life, I was forced to face the mirrors and navigate the labyrinth of deception and self-absorption to discover the true nature of reality.

It can be liberating to discover the truth after years of doubting its integrity. However, it can also be emotionally challenging.

Navigating the complex landscape of narcissism's emotional turmoil presents a multitude of challenges on the path to self-discovery. As you unravel the intricate web of manipulation and deception, you simultaneously embark on the journey of rekindling trust in your own perceptions.

You're in the process of mending the fractured parts of yourself that once viewed the world through a distorted lens, now guiding them to perceive it with absolute clarity.

As you embark on your healing journey, it's crucial to recognize that the inner voice urging you to perceive the truth as you once did doesn't belong to you—it's the inner voice of the narcissist.

The voice that speaks the truth, offering a challenging but essential perspective on reality, belongs to you. It’s the harmonious blend of the child you once were and the person you've grown into today, telling you what you need to hear — not what you want to hear.

In the moments when accepting this truth from your inner child feels challenging, remember that your inner child isn't here to hurt you with the reality. But rather, heal you with it.

To this day, years after I severed contact with my mother (and many therapy sessions later), I often still hush my inner child when she presents me with the truth. I still often lean into the words of my mother, whispering deceit into my ears. I still question the nature of reality, and whether it is to be trusted at all.

But that doesn’t mean I am not healing. That doesn’t mean I am broken beyond repair. That doesn’t mean I will be stuck in the emotional turmoil of a narcissist’s grasp forever. And neither are you.

Freedom in the truth can be found. All it takes is putting your once fractured trust, in it.

Broken pieces, and all.

All my love, always,

Julia Reesor

My earliest memory was watching my parents get married on the beach that harboured our doorstep.

My mother was dressed in a vintage lace white dress she found at the local thrift store on our town’s main street, which she dressed up with a thin white shawl. She beamed when she found it, and I smiled for her.

Surrounded by the white candles placed in the sand around us, my mother beamed as she looked at my father, and I smiled for her.

In between their vows, the only sound that encompassed this small ceremony consisting of my younger sibling, my mother and father, the pastor and myself, was the endless ocean beside us painted ink black and dark blue from the moon’s hues.

My parents chose the ocean as their venue, as it was the first place they met.

They were infatuated with the water and its meaning in their relationship, which they passed along to my siblings and I when they chose to make our first home as a family, one that was situated on the water where they said their vows.

If I wanted to, I could throw a stone from my front step, and have it land in the water. That was how close the water was to my home.

I spent the early years of my childhood soaking my toes in the water, playing with the coarse sand, and laughing under the sun with my siblings until its warmth was no longer seen or felt… Only to count how many hours were left until I could return back.

The water was my sanctuary, and carefully held all of my most cherished memories.

My parent’s wedding. The first time my mother beamed. The first moment I smiled for her.

I would swim until the water’s coolness touched my neck and my toes were barely able to touch the rough bottom, before retreating back to the shore. I would get a sense of its depths, and return back to the safety of the shore instantly.

I was infatuated with how deep the water could be. I would test the limits, time and time again, before scaring myself too much and returning back to the shore.

The last thing I wanted to become, as a child, was swallowed by the sea.

Until the first slam of the door and the harrowing secrets began to pile up behind the four walls of my house, and the water’s depths reached my front door… Swallowing my family and I whole.

The ocean remained as a symbol of those memories that my family and I grasped so tightly to. They were a coping mechanism, a sense of false hope, that our lives would return to the moment my mother beamed.

False hope is a peculiar thing; it keeps us suspended in a perpetual state of uncertainty. It's in this state where we dwell, caught between the reality of our lives, yearning to flee the harshness of that reality, reminiscing about the moments of peace, and gazing ahead with the belief that peace may once more grace our front door like it did before.

But the word false, is there for a reason.

My life never returned to that moment when my mother beamed when she first saw her vintage lace white dress.

In the midst of the chaos that lingered in my house I no longer knew as a home, my family scattered out to sea. My father walked away from being a father, my mother lost the notion of what being a mother is, and my siblings and I were left in a perpetual state of uncertainty; clinging to false hope.

The distance between the different houses we were forced to call home, and the ocean, grew, yet the depths were still present within the four walls.

Over the years, my connection to the ocean deepened. It became a source of solace, a place where I could confront the echoes of my past and find a sense of peace. I was allured to the ocean’s unyielding power. It mirrored the profound challenges I faced daily, and in its depths, I found a reflection of my own inner turmoil.

The addiction. The neglect. The grief. The absence of love. The mother I was forced to be, to children that called me their sister.

It all stems from the moment my mother beamed, and I smiled for her.

The beginning of the end.

With every metaphorical wave that swallowed me, I turned to writing as a coping mechanism to make sense of the turbulence I couldn’t quite make sense of.

What I wrote on paper, was there on paper. I would read it and comprehend it.

What I experienced daily, was mingled with confusion. I would experience it and be left feeling lost.

As my trauma evolved, so did my writing. It was no longer a coping mechanism, but rather, a lifeline I cling so desperately to for understanding. It allowed me to reclaim my voice, to transform my trauma into a source of strength, and to compartmentalize the experiences that rooted deep into who I stand before you today.

Within my writing, my connection to the ocean deepened. The profound link to my journey of healing and self-discovery is rooted in the moment the ocean fostered my earliest happiest memory, and the ones I kept hidden behind four walls for so long.

As an author, my deepest aspiration is to offer you a beacon of understanding and solace through the storms of childhood trauma and grief. Bringing light to the experiences that silenced you. Fostering a deep connection with your trauma and your inner child, which at one point in time, felt isolated and alone.

In my writing, I weave narratives from my own personal experiences that mirror the honest pain and the resilience born from childhood trauma and grief. It is my hope that my words serve as a mirror, reflecting the unique struggles that so many have faced in their own lives.

In recognizing these shared experiences, I aim to dismantle the covering up of traumatic experiences that leave many of us feeling stuck in the depths of our healing, and replace it with a sense of belonging and understanding.

With every word you read, know that my purpose is this: To write about the unspoken, no matter how dark, nor deep, the depths are.

All my love, always,

Julia Reesor