I think lately I've been trying to find my voice again. My poetry, my cadence, my prose. Everyone who has read my blog and has said I should write a book, thank you. I appreciate that. This post though, it isn't like that. It's not trying to describe my feelings. It's memories. And memories are often ugly. No apologies, just facts. So let me give you the first memory from After:
8am, give or take. Cold, although the heat's always on too high in my apartment. There is fuzziness, confusion. Everything wavy and slightly surreal. It's too early; I haven't slept much and my head is pounding like it knows we're not sleeping again for months. Maybe ever. I try to put my contacts in, manage one, and leave the other on the sink where it will remain, dried out and sad when I come back to my apartment hours (days? weeks?) later. Take out the other, toss it in the trash. Put my glasses back on. Pace, pace, pace. Talk to my cats, try to explain to the them with no words. Cry a little. Sit. Stand. You see, I am waiting for the police to come and take me to K's parent's house, because this is the morning that K has died. His brother's voice is echoing in my ear. My voice is echoing in my chest from having just gotten off the phone with my parents. Echoes all around. I am remembering this for you because it recently came flooding back to me.
Over the past year or so, K and I were fortunate to make two very good friends. A couple out of Chicago, who went to college with us. I'll call them the Travelers, because they've managed to see the world in a way most people in their late 20s/early 30s don't. We didn't know them so well in school, though K played basketball on occasion with Mr. Traveler. On the day of K's death, one of the first phone calls I made was to this couple. I'm not sure why, but it felt right. And that has pretty much been the name of the game ever since. So just recently I received a save the date from the Travelers, who will be married in a few months. And I was absolutely elated. But as I read the email, I teared up. And my high started to drift towards a low. You see, K and I would have attended together. And even more so, our friends are so very similar to us. Met at college, dated for many years afterwards, made a life together, finally getting married. Echoes all around. After the funeral, Mrs. Traveler sent me a message that relayed a similar idea. All our parallels. So my joy for them is the joy I would have had for myself, and my sorrow is the sorrow she could have had, in a different version of this life.
Another memory now: Dropped off at K's parent's house, there is an ambulance outside, and four or five police. The officer who dropped me, he says if I can be strong for the family, that would be best. He tells me K's mom is having a hard time. The ambulance is there for her, just in case, and regardless of that, I don't doubt the scene I will find inside. This is a mother who has lost her first born, after all. A hard time would be a massive understatement. But this officer, he doesn't know our history. He doesn't know that this is my husband who has died, that we were boyfriend and girlfriend in title only, but the heart is different. Time is different. But I have always had a strange sense of duty, a way of doing what's asked of me, somehow.
And so a few hours later, I find myself in K's parent's kitchen, surrounded by aunts, uncles, cousins. Sitting on a wooden chair, trying to stay warm. It's cold and clear this day, but the cold is the kind that wraps around your heart and pulls on your organs, the clarity reminding you that you're still here. That I'm still here, when K is not. On any other day, had we been up early, I would have inhaled deeply and told K it was the kind of morning that made you feel life. But on this day, I cannot feel life with K; instead there is only the continuity from one moment to the next, each tip toeing further away from the last time I saw the love of my life alive.
And I'm sitting there, stoic. Strong for the family echoes in my short term memory. I've been carrying that particular echo for a while now, I think, these past few months. But that day especially, I held it well, that strength for the family. Phone calls and all that. And then suddenly, I am crying, because it just occurs to me how backwards all this is. And I'm telling his uncle and aunt how we were supposed to grow old together. I say that over and over, because that was my reality. I was never the kind of girl to plan her ideal wedding or any of that. But this was my life partner, my love, my spouse in my heart before God and the universe and all else, regardless of rings or papers or promises. And all of that is lost to me now.
And that's really what gets me down a lot of the time. Things are all out of order now. We had nine years together before K got snatched out of my life. Who knew old meant a few grey hairs as I entered my 30s, or that forever had a time limit? I am so excited to celebrate with The Travelers later this year, but when I dance, it won't be the way I would have danced with K. There is a certain joy in being that way you know, a natural rhythm that you have moving through space next to someone who fills your heart. I've thought a lot about the fairness of things, why some people get their partners and I do not get mine. I am intrinsically happy for anyone who finds love that way, but there are elements of jealousy too. I wouldn't be honest if I pretended I never felt it, and if there is one thing I won't do it is lie here in this place. Enough of those go on on to get us through the day, the lies we tell to keep us going, so let's have some truth, yeah?
Wednesday, April 9, 2014
Wednesday, April 2, 2014
Phonies & Facades
Here is today, here is tonight: all good vacation memories and optimisms this morning, now come crashing down around me with the darkness and rejection from a good friend tonight after requesting their company. We all fear the night at least a little: the unknown, the careless hours until certainty rises, but here I fear it more than most. Tonight, the tears were torrents, unexpected, unwanted. Listening to music K brought to me, "the kind of music you like" he said one evening, with that funny smile I loved: a tooth chipped and space between the two fronts as big as promises. And it was the kind I like, the music he brought. If you are curious or careless, you may wish to listen and read: Cold Specks – I Predict A Graceful Expulsion.
Tonight these songs pulled out my memories: our first slow dance, kisses everywhere more important than lips, and the way that smell of someone you really love brings more comfort than anything else. These songs, they were every time I felt adoration, and important, and wanted. They were the constant company of having a partner to come home to. They were the lack of loneliness, the absence of wanting. And so I balled myself up in the three things I keep of K's, and bawled and begged him to come back to me. Crumpled in a pile on my air mattress, the emptiness magnified like quick sand all around me and I let myself sink. Head down, I sobbed and asked to feel everything. Bring me all the pain, the emptiness and fear and anger radiating around me all the time. I pulled off every bit of protection I build up for myself each morning and just. fucking. cried. Until the tears drained out and I felt nothing again. And then I cried some more. Because no matter how hollow, sadness laps at my raw edges, never too far away if I let it in.
And I asked as I have asked many nights, how is this my life? How is that my partner was stolen away, that I belong to no one? I want to belong to someone again. Tell me I belong to myself if you'd like, and that is fine and well. But I don't want to be this person. I want to be K's person. I want to be the woman he was proud of, who fought him over stupidness, who he picked up at the bus stop after work and listened to until I was spent of talking about my day--no matter how long--, the person who loved him. I just want to be the person who knew a love like that, all the hardness and comfort of being about and of another human being. Who knew how to be present in the ease of certainty. Not this person now, who is adrift and confused and small. So tiny and invisible. And you know? Freezing. I'm freezing always, with only sparks of anger to stay warm.
And so. What to do, what to do, when my will just isn't anything at all. And so. I give you my smile, and my heart, my careful cautious abandon, that you might keep them until my feet find ground again. I give you my rejection and hurt, that they might be less sharp in your care. I give you my capability and charisma, my dreams and goals, that they will grow less useless under your gaze. I am listening to Cold Specks, and not exploding gracefully. I am exploding messy and human, boney fragmented blood and sinewed emotions all over these digital pages. I am this person who is me, and is not me. Who has fought so fucking hard to not make death bigger than life, but is losing today.
Tonight, tonight, I crack my facade and feel phony underneath. Because there is no strength to be found here. The motivation is plastic locomotive, a very nice replica of someone who moves forward, truth be told. I feel invisible and forgotten, I feel indifferent and cold. My heart wants to love because it was made to, because not loving feels unnatural, and so it grasps and reaches and finds empty air where K used to be. And it retreats back, scared. I am 30 years old and I feel 500. Ancient and slow and hideous. I feel so ugly, all these feelings all wrapped up and ignored because of my ability to paint a smile. How ugly can a person be, I wonder, can they be uglier than I am right now?
I was asked the other day how I do it, keep this up. I don't. I try very very hard to seem okay, but I am not okay. Worry if you'd like, I can't stop you. I'd tell you not to, but the word pointless comes to mind. Tell me not to swear (someone did recently, don't read this then), question how I am still here and then remember it has been 2 months and 16 days since my world broke open. Know that After still consumes me, and feels like the kind of forever nightmares are made of.
Today was a good day turned bad. There will be many more. I do not apologize. If you are here with me, you shouldn't either. Cry with me. Be consumed by your anger and hopelessness. Wake up tomorrow and paint your face back on, it's another day and who knows if it will be bad-good, or good-bad, or something else unpredictable and uglier than the day before, or more beautiful and the kind of safe we hope will last. Who ever knows...not I, not I.
Tonight these songs pulled out my memories: our first slow dance, kisses everywhere more important than lips, and the way that smell of someone you really love brings more comfort than anything else. These songs, they were every time I felt adoration, and important, and wanted. They were the constant company of having a partner to come home to. They were the lack of loneliness, the absence of wanting. And so I balled myself up in the three things I keep of K's, and bawled and begged him to come back to me. Crumpled in a pile on my air mattress, the emptiness magnified like quick sand all around me and I let myself sink. Head down, I sobbed and asked to feel everything. Bring me all the pain, the emptiness and fear and anger radiating around me all the time. I pulled off every bit of protection I build up for myself each morning and just. fucking. cried. Until the tears drained out and I felt nothing again. And then I cried some more. Because no matter how hollow, sadness laps at my raw edges, never too far away if I let it in.
And I asked as I have asked many nights, how is this my life? How is that my partner was stolen away, that I belong to no one? I want to belong to someone again. Tell me I belong to myself if you'd like, and that is fine and well. But I don't want to be this person. I want to be K's person. I want to be the woman he was proud of, who fought him over stupidness, who he picked up at the bus stop after work and listened to until I was spent of talking about my day--no matter how long--, the person who loved him. I just want to be the person who knew a love like that, all the hardness and comfort of being about and of another human being. Who knew how to be present in the ease of certainty. Not this person now, who is adrift and confused and small. So tiny and invisible. And you know? Freezing. I'm freezing always, with only sparks of anger to stay warm.
And so. What to do, what to do, when my will just isn't anything at all. And so. I give you my smile, and my heart, my careful cautious abandon, that you might keep them until my feet find ground again. I give you my rejection and hurt, that they might be less sharp in your care. I give you my capability and charisma, my dreams and goals, that they will grow less useless under your gaze. I am listening to Cold Specks, and not exploding gracefully. I am exploding messy and human, boney fragmented blood and sinewed emotions all over these digital pages. I am this person who is me, and is not me. Who has fought so fucking hard to not make death bigger than life, but is losing today.
Tonight, tonight, I crack my facade and feel phony underneath. Because there is no strength to be found here. The motivation is plastic locomotive, a very nice replica of someone who moves forward, truth be told. I feel invisible and forgotten, I feel indifferent and cold. My heart wants to love because it was made to, because not loving feels unnatural, and so it grasps and reaches and finds empty air where K used to be. And it retreats back, scared. I am 30 years old and I feel 500. Ancient and slow and hideous. I feel so ugly, all these feelings all wrapped up and ignored because of my ability to paint a smile. How ugly can a person be, I wonder, can they be uglier than I am right now?
I was asked the other day how I do it, keep this up. I don't. I try very very hard to seem okay, but I am not okay. Worry if you'd like, I can't stop you. I'd tell you not to, but the word pointless comes to mind. Tell me not to swear (someone did recently, don't read this then), question how I am still here and then remember it has been 2 months and 16 days since my world broke open. Know that After still consumes me, and feels like the kind of forever nightmares are made of.
Today was a good day turned bad. There will be many more. I do not apologize. If you are here with me, you shouldn't either. Cry with me. Be consumed by your anger and hopelessness. Wake up tomorrow and paint your face back on, it's another day and who knows if it will be bad-good, or good-bad, or something else unpredictable and uglier than the day before, or more beautiful and the kind of safe we hope will last. Who ever knows...not I, not I.
Saturday, March 22, 2014
The Emptiness of Survival
In the week between the accident and the funeral, I experienced a profound shift in self. This is probably not a surprise; frankly I was in shock. I probably still am, to some extent. I hardly ate or slept that week. I was surviving, and in many ways not very well. I think you have no choice, in this place where you have become unrecognizable to yourself.
I was surprised by the weeks spent unable to look at myself in the mirror. In Judaism we cover mirrors for a period of time in mourning; I asked my dad why, but he didn't remember and I never got around to looking it up. I didn't cover any mirrors, but I wondered if perhaps that had something to do with it. I should probably just Google it. I do know that every time I would look at my reflection, I would start to cry. I think it was because I recognized I wasn't really there, and there is something intrinsically horrifying about seeing the absence of yourself. I've written about the experience of emptiness and I suppose that's what I mean. My body is present, my mind is on autopilot and capable but my heart and soul have dug deep and buried themselves. I would like to say they are protecting me from this, but I think they have abandoned me. They are cowards, hiding away so far from the surface. We are, I think, tumbling through life a ball of confused emotions unified by heart and purpose. So when heart and purpose are missing, what are we then? I'd rather like to know.
So I believe in zombies. You might laugh at me for that, but honestly, how else can I describe myself during this time? A human robot, serving base needs. Surviving. How is that different than a zombie? Next time you see someone in Grief, look closely. Look for the plateau in our eyes, the dull sheen of exhaustion and profound weariness brought by having to exist another day, broken. I think there is a certain mutedness, a stillness that floats about us like a cloud. So the question then, how to go from surviving to living?
And then there are the things you may do that we cannot: listen to music, watch TV or movies, lose yourself in the ease of conversation and the carelessness of good humor. K had a deep relationship with music, and many of the musicians I came to know and love were introduced to me by him. So these days I listen to artists he would not have, or music that speaks to where I find myself. It's the same things on repeat, over and over. There's a kind of the routine to listening to the same songs on repeat and it gives me one thing I can rely on, unlike my arc of emotions. K and I watched a lot of TV, so I don't really watch much anymore. It just doesn't matter to me. So many things just do not matter.
To the Grieving: there is a way to stop surviving and start living again. This is a truth because it has to be, because we remain and because we owe it to those we have lost to do what they cannot. And more so, we owe it to ourselves and those who stand by us in this most difficult of times. And mostly, because the other choice, the choice to merely survive, is no choice at all.
I was surprised by the weeks spent unable to look at myself in the mirror. In Judaism we cover mirrors for a period of time in mourning; I asked my dad why, but he didn't remember and I never got around to looking it up. I didn't cover any mirrors, but I wondered if perhaps that had something to do with it. I should probably just Google it. I do know that every time I would look at my reflection, I would start to cry. I think it was because I recognized I wasn't really there, and there is something intrinsically horrifying about seeing the absence of yourself. I've written about the experience of emptiness and I suppose that's what I mean. My body is present, my mind is on autopilot and capable but my heart and soul have dug deep and buried themselves. I would like to say they are protecting me from this, but I think they have abandoned me. They are cowards, hiding away so far from the surface. We are, I think, tumbling through life a ball of confused emotions unified by heart and purpose. So when heart and purpose are missing, what are we then? I'd rather like to know.
So I believe in zombies. You might laugh at me for that, but honestly, how else can I describe myself during this time? A human robot, serving base needs. Surviving. How is that different than a zombie? Next time you see someone in Grief, look closely. Look for the plateau in our eyes, the dull sheen of exhaustion and profound weariness brought by having to exist another day, broken. I think there is a certain mutedness, a stillness that floats about us like a cloud. So the question then, how to go from surviving to living?
I think I currently bounce between surviving and living, but more on the living side of the line. From my experience, these are the things I know to be true:
Those who are Grieving lack nourishment. We need to eat richly, we need the sustenance of companionship and caring that comes from a real meal. The kind where you sit and lose hours in conversation and memories, where you start thinking, it doesn't feel like it takes a village, more like a whole fucking army to push us the tiniest bit back towards ourselves. If you find us, the Grieving, know our selves are gangly and sprawled, so gather us up and hold us in your presence, feed us as much or as little as we can eat, but do it over and over again. We cannot take care, and so you must, if you hope to help us heal.
Those who are Grieving do not sleep. We may lay down and close our eyes, but it is only hours in which we can retreat from the world and further into ourselves. We need to sleep deeply, and remember how to dream. When K died, I lost my dreams and that is how I knew I was truly lost. I think I dream maybe 45% of the time now, just over 2 months later. Before, I used to remember every dream I had. Every single one. I used to dream lucidly, controlling my subconscious state and moving from one dream to the next. It was pretty cool, and provided a source of inspiration. So the cutting off of my dreams has been like cutting off my oxygen, and I am left breathing shallow. And to be honest, I don't think I know how to really sleep anymore. And for those of us who are not sleeping, well, I don't know how to tell you how to help. I hope that one day I will find true rest again, and that I will dream.
And then there are the things you may do that we cannot: listen to music, watch TV or movies, lose yourself in the ease of conversation and the carelessness of good humor. K had a deep relationship with music, and many of the musicians I came to know and love were introduced to me by him. So these days I listen to artists he would not have, or music that speaks to where I find myself. It's the same things on repeat, over and over. There's a kind of the routine to listening to the same songs on repeat and it gives me one thing I can rely on, unlike my arc of emotions. K and I watched a lot of TV, so I don't really watch much anymore. It just doesn't matter to me. So many things just do not matter.
To the Grieving: there is a way to stop surviving and start living again. This is a truth because it has to be, because we remain and because we owe it to those we have lost to do what they cannot. And more so, we owe it to ourselves and those who stand by us in this most difficult of times. And mostly, because the other choice, the choice to merely survive, is no choice at all.
To those trying to help: I say what I have said before and will continue to say. Forgive my repetition, but I have heard of people being cruel and impatient (not to me, but to friends who have lost loved ones). And maybe you don't even realize you are, but things are hard enough. So, please be present for us because it is likely we are truly absent. And if we choose to share, listen. Do not lecture, do not judge, and perhaps do not even offer advice. Know that we try, as much as we can, and that each day will be a different kind of hard or easy.
But mostly, love us. Love us in all ways minor and obvious, in ways that are familiar and new and maybe a little uncomfortable at times. Love us more than we are currently capable of loving ourselves.
Wednesday, March 19, 2014
Fuck 2014
I'm done with this year ya'll. I'm done with the universe picking off all our loved ones. People keep telling me it's the dying season. Fuck the dying season. Fuck reading a new status message every few days about yet another young person dying. Or someone's parent. Or someone's partner. I just...I can't.
Yesterday was the 2nd month anniversary of K's death. I still have a hard time typing that. Because every time I do, it makes it real. I don't know when I'll be able to type that, or say it, without feeling like if only I didn't say it, it wouldn't be true. I remember when we first started dating, I made us celebrate all of our month anniversaries. We'd been dating for a few weeks at the time, but made things official Nov 30th, 2004. So it was always the 30th of the month, until we hit one year. Now I wonder if I'm going to keep counting the months, until they become years. The 18th. The fucking 18th of every month for the next year. And then January 18th. November 30th. October 16th, his birthday. Those are the days that matter. Birth, love, death. All it boils down to in the end, made up out of 3 days each year my heart will catch a little.
I spend a lot of time wandering between remembering and forgetting. Forgetting the why and the how, but trying not to lose this beautiful person who I made so many memories with. For some reason, I remembered the first time K took me around people he knew as his girlfriend. It was this dance in his dorm, and he invited me. He wore a blue checked flannel shirt, black slacks and shiny black shoes. I remember how shiny his shoes were because of how well he danced. He was a great dancer. And I wore this spanish influenced black dress with red roses. And I remember at one point, he was spinning me, and salsa dancing, and all this other stuff while everyone else did the awkward two step with stiff arms on hips and shoulders. It was like a middle school dance where everyone was a little taller. K and I never two-stepped though, we always dance danced. And at one point, the Destiny's Child song Solider came on. And the whole room made a circle around us, dancing as we were. And every time the chorus would come on, they'd point at K. He was a little embarrassed, but also proud I think. It wasn't far into our relationship, but after that, I knew I loved him.
Through our relationship, I always felt that way, like he was my solider. Always there to protect me. And somehow, I couldn't return it. The only time it every actually mattered, I couldn't protect him.
Here's a poem I wrote, about how I've been feeling. About time and some other things. I'm trying to document these a little better, because sometimes poetry just feels so right.
I've been wondering about how time passes,
about long lines of possibility,
and the choices we make.
And how months feel like years and seconds
all at once somehow blurring by,
tenuously. Everything so damn tenuous.
I can't stop remembering the last time I saw you,
every second larger than
the life you left,
all in perfectly painted detail on my memory,
because time stopped then
--and my heart started beating broken--
and here I am,
monthssecondsyears passing me by,
still trying to understand how this is truth,
and what kind of cruelty exists that
our world takes you and leaves me, empty
and searching.
I'd be alright, if I could just see you.
I'll be alright, when time stops passing
lonely and broken like this.
Because I'm so over 2014, I've decided to publish this blog. I've had it secret for a little while, not sure what I wanted to do with it. I wanted to add some more entries maybe, make it feel more complete before I offered it up to the world. Opened myself up to everyone. But how can I sit on everything I'm going through, when so many people are sharing my experience? I want us all to heal by the commonality of the human experiences of Grief and Sorrow, not sit seemingly placid and quiet to the world while we break down inside. And lord knows I've been breaking down inside more and more. The outside though, that porcelain facade is on lock. Don't worry about me though, it's not a bad thing. I don't know how else I would get through my day.
Love.
Yesterday was the 2nd month anniversary of K's death. I still have a hard time typing that. Because every time I do, it makes it real. I don't know when I'll be able to type that, or say it, without feeling like if only I didn't say it, it wouldn't be true. I remember when we first started dating, I made us celebrate all of our month anniversaries. We'd been dating for a few weeks at the time, but made things official Nov 30th, 2004. So it was always the 30th of the month, until we hit one year. Now I wonder if I'm going to keep counting the months, until they become years. The 18th. The fucking 18th of every month for the next year. And then January 18th. November 30th. October 16th, his birthday. Those are the days that matter. Birth, love, death. All it boils down to in the end, made up out of 3 days each year my heart will catch a little.
I spend a lot of time wandering between remembering and forgetting. Forgetting the why and the how, but trying not to lose this beautiful person who I made so many memories with. For some reason, I remembered the first time K took me around people he knew as his girlfriend. It was this dance in his dorm, and he invited me. He wore a blue checked flannel shirt, black slacks and shiny black shoes. I remember how shiny his shoes were because of how well he danced. He was a great dancer. And I wore this spanish influenced black dress with red roses. And I remember at one point, he was spinning me, and salsa dancing, and all this other stuff while everyone else did the awkward two step with stiff arms on hips and shoulders. It was like a middle school dance where everyone was a little taller. K and I never two-stepped though, we always dance danced. And at one point, the Destiny's Child song Solider came on. And the whole room made a circle around us, dancing as we were. And every time the chorus would come on, they'd point at K. He was a little embarrassed, but also proud I think. It wasn't far into our relationship, but after that, I knew I loved him.
Through our relationship, I always felt that way, like he was my solider. Always there to protect me. And somehow, I couldn't return it. The only time it every actually mattered, I couldn't protect him.
Here's a poem I wrote, about how I've been feeling. About time and some other things. I'm trying to document these a little better, because sometimes poetry just feels so right.
I've been wondering about how time passes,
about long lines of possibility,
and the choices we make.
And how months feel like years and seconds
all at once somehow blurring by,
tenuously. Everything so damn tenuous.
I can't stop remembering the last time I saw you,
every second larger than
the life you left,
all in perfectly painted detail on my memory,
because time stopped then
--and my heart started beating broken--
and here I am,
monthssecondsyears passing me by,
still trying to understand how this is truth,
and what kind of cruelty exists that
our world takes you and leaves me, empty
and searching.
I'd be alright, if I could just see you.
I'll be alright, when time stops passing
lonely and broken like this.
Because I'm so over 2014, I've decided to publish this blog. I've had it secret for a little while, not sure what I wanted to do with it. I wanted to add some more entries maybe, make it feel more complete before I offered it up to the world. Opened myself up to everyone. But how can I sit on everything I'm going through, when so many people are sharing my experience? I want us all to heal by the commonality of the human experiences of Grief and Sorrow, not sit seemingly placid and quiet to the world while we break down inside. And lord knows I've been breaking down inside more and more. The outside though, that porcelain facade is on lock. Don't worry about me though, it's not a bad thing. I don't know how else I would get through my day.
Love.
Wednesday, March 12, 2014
Lines and Circles
I feel like I've been living under a rock. Or maybe in some precious, sheltered bubble. I'm confused by people. By our squirrely inabilities to be forthcoming with each other. K was really critical of people, and I was critical of him for being critical. I have this bad habit of intrinsically believing everyone is good and kind, somewhere under their various levels of jackassery. I trust people. I think we want to be good, the way an apple falls from a tree because it's meant to (or something like that, it's been a while since I took philosophy).
Sometimes I ask K what he thinks of a situation. I imagine him laughing at me a lot, not because he was mean-spirited (quite the opposite), but because I am so clumsy about human relationships. I'm kind of like this bumbling, tripping ball of emotion with everyone I know. I was like that when K was alive too, and he was always there to tell me about it. It sounds worse than it was...he was protective of my heart, I suppose you might say. He'd kind of get this quizzical look, like "why would you do that?" not out of judgement, but true lack of understanding. In his world, of cities and hustles and grinds and ulterior motives, people are sharp pointy objects at the best of times.
So here's a thing: I decided to go out with a guy. I guess you'd call it a date, as we went to a restaurant and he paid. Isn't that what the kids are calling a date these days? But let me clarify something. I'm not ready to date. I don't want to meet another guy, or get into a relationship, or even see someone where there might be emotions. Those emotions are still in a bottle on a shelf in my heart, all locked away with things sacred. Emotionally unavailable you might say, depending on your level of jackassery. I recognize that I am technically single, but that word tastes like cotton in my mouth. I recognize that human males exist, and some of them probably even notice me. And while my eyes and brain connect to recognize attractive qualities in someone, I'm not attracted to anyone. Probably because that part of me is still a war zone, all scared over and ugly. I'm not really ready to excavate yet.
Why the date then? Normalcy. Boredom. Loneliness. Let's start there, with the lonely. I've mentioned it a few times. I'm lonely in this bored, aching way. Lacking. Empty. I just wanted to talk to someone, spend time with someone, without feeling like they were doing me a huge favor (which is how I usually feel when I'm out with someone). Then there's the normal part...first post I talked about getting to Somehow...my version of going on. I'm not moving on, I'm going on. Big difference. So I figured that a guy with a nice smile and kind eyes (and not so bad to look at either) might be okay. And it totally was. We laughed over watermelon salad and fried shrimp and talked about traveling and being young biracial professionals in a a big city. After some internal debate, I told him about K, and he was understanding. He drove me home in a nice car and hugged me good night. It was a very nice time.
I've told a few people I went on a date, just to try the word out in my mouth. And to test the reactions, I guess. Being judged is still something I worry about, if I'm honest. Waking up the next morning, my stomach was in knots. My heart was its crackly, aching old self, all filled with a familiarity that is the special kind of guilt you only get with Grief. I don't cry as often as I used to, not in the conventional sense. I cry inside all the time. More often than you would believe, to see me. The physical tears come at particular lows now, which is maybe progress? The point is, it reminded me none of this is linear. It's better, worse, forget, remember, numb, feel, numb, anger, better...it's random.
The thing with Grief, I think, is that it's like eating something sour. Like you chew it over in your mouth to test the taste, and at first it's horrible, then it gets a little better as it starts to melt away, and then that last bit is the worst. And it just stays coated on your tongue and no amount of brushing can make it go away. And then there's a smell that goes with it, just to remind you, just for the moment you think you've stopped the taste. I don't know why I have this need to describe Grief all the time, but I do. I guess I just want you to understand what it feels like, because I don't ever want you to go through this. And if you do, I want you to be prepared, as far as that goes.
I don't know when I'll go on a date, or hang out, or whatever again. I do know I will continue to try to do things to get normalcy, to alleviate the loneliness and boredom. I'm in this numb the feelings or create the feeling when I'm numb place. Bouncing back and forth. I expect that to continue. Carefully, carefully, as it goes.
Sometimes I ask K what he thinks of a situation. I imagine him laughing at me a lot, not because he was mean-spirited (quite the opposite), but because I am so clumsy about human relationships. I'm kind of like this bumbling, tripping ball of emotion with everyone I know. I was like that when K was alive too, and he was always there to tell me about it. It sounds worse than it was...he was protective of my heart, I suppose you might say. He'd kind of get this quizzical look, like "why would you do that?" not out of judgement, but true lack of understanding. In his world, of cities and hustles and grinds and ulterior motives, people are sharp pointy objects at the best of times.
So here's a thing: I decided to go out with a guy. I guess you'd call it a date, as we went to a restaurant and he paid. Isn't that what the kids are calling a date these days? But let me clarify something. I'm not ready to date. I don't want to meet another guy, or get into a relationship, or even see someone where there might be emotions. Those emotions are still in a bottle on a shelf in my heart, all locked away with things sacred. Emotionally unavailable you might say, depending on your level of jackassery. I recognize that I am technically single, but that word tastes like cotton in my mouth. I recognize that human males exist, and some of them probably even notice me. And while my eyes and brain connect to recognize attractive qualities in someone, I'm not attracted to anyone. Probably because that part of me is still a war zone, all scared over and ugly. I'm not really ready to excavate yet.
Why the date then? Normalcy. Boredom. Loneliness. Let's start there, with the lonely. I've mentioned it a few times. I'm lonely in this bored, aching way. Lacking. Empty. I just wanted to talk to someone, spend time with someone, without feeling like they were doing me a huge favor (which is how I usually feel when I'm out with someone). Then there's the normal part...first post I talked about getting to Somehow...my version of going on. I'm not moving on, I'm going on. Big difference. So I figured that a guy with a nice smile and kind eyes (and not so bad to look at either) might be okay. And it totally was. We laughed over watermelon salad and fried shrimp and talked about traveling and being young biracial professionals in a a big city. After some internal debate, I told him about K, and he was understanding. He drove me home in a nice car and hugged me good night. It was a very nice time.
I've told a few people I went on a date, just to try the word out in my mouth. And to test the reactions, I guess. Being judged is still something I worry about, if I'm honest. Waking up the next morning, my stomach was in knots. My heart was its crackly, aching old self, all filled with a familiarity that is the special kind of guilt you only get with Grief. I don't cry as often as I used to, not in the conventional sense. I cry inside all the time. More often than you would believe, to see me. The physical tears come at particular lows now, which is maybe progress? The point is, it reminded me none of this is linear. It's better, worse, forget, remember, numb, feel, numb, anger, better...it's random.
The thing with Grief, I think, is that it's like eating something sour. Like you chew it over in your mouth to test the taste, and at first it's horrible, then it gets a little better as it starts to melt away, and then that last bit is the worst. And it just stays coated on your tongue and no amount of brushing can make it go away. And then there's a smell that goes with it, just to remind you, just for the moment you think you've stopped the taste. I don't know why I have this need to describe Grief all the time, but I do. I guess I just want you to understand what it feels like, because I don't ever want you to go through this. And if you do, I want you to be prepared, as far as that goes.
I don't know when I'll go on a date, or hang out, or whatever again. I do know I will continue to try to do things to get normalcy, to alleviate the loneliness and boredom. I'm in this numb the feelings or create the feeling when I'm numb place. Bouncing back and forth. I expect that to continue. Carefully, carefully, as it goes.
Wednesday, March 5, 2014
The Necessity of going to New Jersey
Tomorrow, I am going back to New Jersey for the first time in nearly a month. I went back immediately following my return from my parent's house, for a weekend. And since then, I haven't given much thought to going there. In fact, I could probably never go there again for the rest of my life. The whole state. I could just forget it exists...how many states? Not 49? Oh.
I'm going for work...I probably could have said I didn't want to go. I could have explained it, and they might have understood. I could be spending tomorrow safely in my little bubble, where people use subways and not cars, where K might still be alive if only he'd been willing to move out of NJ. I'm in danger of a panic attack. I'm in danger of breaking down into tears. I'm in danger of under performing due to the stress and anxiety of being only one small town away from the place I spent the past 5+ years of my life. But tomorrow, I'm going. I may not say anything until I have to. I may be as withdrawn as I can be without raising too many questions. But, I'm going.
I'm going because it's my job. Because life has to go on, has to function in a new normal. Because I'm stronger than my Grief, or my fear, or my heartache. Because I have to be. I don't think this will be good for me. I don't think it will be easy or okay, or that I will be able to start breathing again until I am safely back in the city, away from all the reminders. But I do think it's necessary. And that it why I'm going. Or at least what I keep telling myself, as I try to get to sleep tonight.
I'm going for work...I probably could have said I didn't want to go. I could have explained it, and they might have understood. I could be spending tomorrow safely in my little bubble, where people use subways and not cars, where K might still be alive if only he'd been willing to move out of NJ. I'm in danger of a panic attack. I'm in danger of breaking down into tears. I'm in danger of under performing due to the stress and anxiety of being only one small town away from the place I spent the past 5+ years of my life. But tomorrow, I'm going. I may not say anything until I have to. I may be as withdrawn as I can be without raising too many questions. But, I'm going.
I'm going because it's my job. Because life has to go on, has to function in a new normal. Because I'm stronger than my Grief, or my fear, or my heartache. Because I have to be. I don't think this will be good for me. I don't think it will be easy or okay, or that I will be able to start breathing again until I am safely back in the city, away from all the reminders. But I do think it's necessary. And that it why I'm going. Or at least what I keep telling myself, as I try to get to sleep tonight.
Monday, March 3, 2014
Dear K____, Part 1 of Many
Dear Lovey Face,
I think you would be proud of me. I'm talking with your dad, about what kind of scholarship to set up for you. We both know what you were passionate about. We both know what to do. I think you would be proud because we are doing the best we can. I think you be happy that we are here, living our lives, and remembering you every day. I think you would hug us, and wipe our tears and say, hey now, it's not so bad. I think you'd make a joke and have us all laughing so hard, we'd forget why we were ever sad to begin with. I think you would take me aside and hug me so tight because you would know that's what I needed, and you would kiss me on the forehead, right above my eyebrow, the way you used to do at the beginning of every movie date night, right as the lights got low.
I think you would tell us not to be so mad that this happened to you, because you believed in and trusted God, and you would want us to accept that this was His plan, even if it wasn't ours. I think you would hate to see us in so much pain, and would want to do whatever you could to alleviate it. I think it probably bothers if you, if you can feel that kind of way now, that you can't keep us from hurting. I think you would be proud though, and probably not surprised, at how strong your father is. And your brother too. I think you would be impressed at the man he has become, almost over night. They are all so much stronger than I am, Lovey. I think I am the weakest of us all, those of us you've left behind.
Sometimes I worry that you would be disappointed in me. In the way I cope, the way I am numb, or feel too much. In the choices I make to get through my day. In the way I treat people, or ignore them. In the lies I tell myself to make everything a little quieter when I sleep at night. And then I tell myself not to be silly, because I know you would understand. I know if you were here and I were there, you would do anything and everything you had to do keep your head up. And you would know that I would support and love you unconditionally, because I did in life. As you did for me, in life. And so why should death be any different? Only more intense, I would think. All that love all stored up, and now radiating across galaxies and time and space and things we haven't discovered yet.
It's just that I miss you. I miss you in a way for which my words fail me, which is no small feat (go ahead and laugh at me, always wanting to word smith every essay, and now being at a loss). I miss you in a way that breaks my heart over and over, every time I remember something we hadn't gotten to experience yet. Every time I think of everything I lost. Every time I give myself a chance to feel how empty I am, and how little I care for this world that goes on without you in it. Which is why I know you can't be anything but proud of me...because I am still here. I am still here, living, because I haven't given myself another choice. I know you are up there, or sitting next to me, or everywhere, loving me so hard and how freaking lucky am I for that? How many people get that kind of love? Our kind of love? Of course I wish I had it here with me on earth, but that eternal joint? Lovey, that's some deep shit right there. That's something I hold on to so hard, because only a fraction of the planet gets a love like that. And I don't worry because I know you're watching out for me, with all that love.
And I know when I get up there, you'll be up there too. And we'll be together again one day...and maybe we can take another go at this crazy whirlwind of life, if that's how it all works in the end? And if not, at least we'll be together. I don't have any doubt it works that way...you get to be with the ones who love you most. No past tense about it, because it never ends.
Always,
your Leppy
I think you would be proud of me. I'm talking with your dad, about what kind of scholarship to set up for you. We both know what you were passionate about. We both know what to do. I think you would be proud because we are doing the best we can. I think you be happy that we are here, living our lives, and remembering you every day. I think you would hug us, and wipe our tears and say, hey now, it's not so bad. I think you'd make a joke and have us all laughing so hard, we'd forget why we were ever sad to begin with. I think you would take me aside and hug me so tight because you would know that's what I needed, and you would kiss me on the forehead, right above my eyebrow, the way you used to do at the beginning of every movie date night, right as the lights got low.
I think you would tell us not to be so mad that this happened to you, because you believed in and trusted God, and you would want us to accept that this was His plan, even if it wasn't ours. I think you would hate to see us in so much pain, and would want to do whatever you could to alleviate it. I think it probably bothers if you, if you can feel that kind of way now, that you can't keep us from hurting. I think you would be proud though, and probably not surprised, at how strong your father is. And your brother too. I think you would be impressed at the man he has become, almost over night. They are all so much stronger than I am, Lovey. I think I am the weakest of us all, those of us you've left behind.
Sometimes I worry that you would be disappointed in me. In the way I cope, the way I am numb, or feel too much. In the choices I make to get through my day. In the way I treat people, or ignore them. In the lies I tell myself to make everything a little quieter when I sleep at night. And then I tell myself not to be silly, because I know you would understand. I know if you were here and I were there, you would do anything and everything you had to do keep your head up. And you would know that I would support and love you unconditionally, because I did in life. As you did for me, in life. And so why should death be any different? Only more intense, I would think. All that love all stored up, and now radiating across galaxies and time and space and things we haven't discovered yet.
It's just that I miss you. I miss you in a way for which my words fail me, which is no small feat (go ahead and laugh at me, always wanting to word smith every essay, and now being at a loss). I miss you in a way that breaks my heart over and over, every time I remember something we hadn't gotten to experience yet. Every time I think of everything I lost. Every time I give myself a chance to feel how empty I am, and how little I care for this world that goes on without you in it. Which is why I know you can't be anything but proud of me...because I am still here. I am still here, living, because I haven't given myself another choice. I know you are up there, or sitting next to me, or everywhere, loving me so hard and how freaking lucky am I for that? How many people get that kind of love? Our kind of love? Of course I wish I had it here with me on earth, but that eternal joint? Lovey, that's some deep shit right there. That's something I hold on to so hard, because only a fraction of the planet gets a love like that. And I don't worry because I know you're watching out for me, with all that love.
And I know when I get up there, you'll be up there too. And we'll be together again one day...and maybe we can take another go at this crazy whirlwind of life, if that's how it all works in the end? And if not, at least we'll be together. I don't have any doubt it works that way...you get to be with the ones who love you most. No past tense about it, because it never ends.
Always,
your Leppy
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