The Rest Is Silence
Everything comes out teenage petulance.
“The rest is silence.”
The phrase uttered by Hamlet in his final moments. It has been resonating deeply within me, echoing the quiet aftermath of profound sorrow and the simmering anger that has been emerging in its wake. Just as Hamlet's journey is marked by a quest for vengeance and eventual resolution, my own journey through grief is forcing me to confront the anger that has been dormant for years.
Months of planning and panicking culminated in my mother’s memorial and celebration of life this past weekend. I white-knuckled my way through the day and I felt a great rush of relief once it was over. I cried more than I thought I would and, to my surprise, my grief had taken on another quality I did not see coming, but I am quite happy it is here:
sweet, beautiful anger.
Not the destructive kind. A form of anger that motivates and inspires. The kind that is left when the pain of loss momentarily subsides. It’s productive if utilized correctly.
When the crowd dispersed and the last stragglers made their way home, indignation greeted me in the familiar silence I was left with.
I was furious.
I simmered with anger towards my homophobic and ultraconservative uncles who callously disregarded me throughout the weekend and, truth be told, for the majority of my life. Their disdainful remarks towards teachers cut particularly deep, especially knowing full well that my mother, whose life we were gathered to honor, had dedicated herself tirelessly to the field of education. I was angry with the blatant disregard for the values my mother held dear, a betrayal of her legacy and the principles she stood for.
I was angry these family members didn’t know her at all but expected us to bend a knee to them.
It only intensified when a priest spoke to the crowd of mourners, his words grating against the essence of my mother's beliefs and wishes. With unsettling earnestness (I couldn't help but find it somewhat comical) he spoke of the supposed solace found in Jesus, oblivious to the fact that my mother had no faith of her own. Her explicit desire to forego any religious ceremony was disregarded, her final wishes drowned out by well-meaning but misguided corruption. As he launched into a celebratory song (yeah, really), and as my friends and I stifled our laughter at its absurdity, I felt a surge of frustration and incredulity wash over me. This was not a moment for religious spectacle or grand gestures; it was a time for authenticity and respect for my mother's individuality. Yet, here we were, subjected to a display that felt hollow and out of touch.
In the following days, the anger did not subside, but only grew the more I became curious about it. It was now shooting off in any direction that had space for it.
*sharp inhale*
I found myself seething with anger at my recent lapses of judgment, succumbing to old habits in the last few weeks. The pressure to maintain composure and feign appreciation for ceremonies and rituals that failed to honor my mother only fueled my frustration.
I am angry that I am thirty-three years old and financially struggling.
Angry that I am regressing to past battles with destructive behaviors. The realization that my mother never had the chance to fulfill her dreams added to my resentment.
I harbored animosity towards my father, those seemingly ahead in life, the lack of attention I received, and the unresolved issues threatening to engulf me once more. An unyielding cycle.
It felt like being thrust back into the tumult of teenage angst, resorting to immature expressions of discontent. I found myself kicking and screaming against anything that had power over me, shouting at my own reflection:
"THIS IS NOT FAIR.”
Amidst this turmoil, a pure anger surged, urging me to escape, to abandon the senseless noise, and seek solace within myself. To honor my mother in the truest sense, I feel compelled to defiantly carve out a life for myself and only myself. I want to raise a stiff middle finger to everyone and everything as I dismantle the life I am living now.
*long exhale*
And then, silence.
Exhaustion.
Determination.
I'm exploring ways in which I could channel this anger into propelling myself towards a new life. This emotion, dormant for nearly a lifetime, is now bursting out of me with intensity, and I can't help but view it as a gift, a wake-up call urging me to break free and embrace a fierce independence, a trait my mother always yearned for but was never able to attain. This newfound productivity is, in essence, the most authentic way to honor her memory. I can envision her nodding in approval, urging me to let go of expectations and carve out my own path in the world, dependent only on myself.
Yes, I’m a late starter, but it's the only starting point I have. As I spend this May, and likely the majority of the summer, tirelessly applying for jobs, seeking grants and programs, and reaching out for opportunities, there's a sting of failure lingering in the background. It's disheartening to realize that my meticulously laid plans have often led to dead-ends and closed doors. Yet, perhaps the true failure lies in surrendering to defeat and giving up, an option I seriously contemplated just weeks ago. So, despite the setbacks and disappointments, I press on, fueled by this newfound anger and determination to forge my own destiny.
Just as Hamlet grapples with the weight of his father's death and the subsequent turmoil within his family, I too find myself wrestling with the aftermath of losing my mother and the upheaval it has caused in my life. In the sacred anger born of grief, I am discovering the profound beauty of resilience, and in the embrace of new beginnings, I am perhaps beginning to believe in the promise of a brighter tomorrow.
The rest is silence.