I had a tidy little post for today. A response to a writing prompt - fluffy, funny, feel good. It'll turn up later. Right now I'm just a raw bundle of reaction.
The Avett Brothers are singing to me today: "Are you aware the shape I'm in? My hands they shake, my head it spins. Oh Brooklyn, Brooklyn take me in... three words that became hard to say. I and Love and You."
When did it get so hard to love? I don't mean wild romance, or the intense insanity we feel for our children, or even our affection for friends.
I mean "love your neighbor as yourself".
I mean "love your enemies".
When did it become OK to hate for hating's sake? When did it become all right to set up on opposite sides of a barrier of straw and hurl mindless insults?
I live intentionally in a pretty happy little bubble. I tune out the news. I'm not a "knee-jerk" anything. I hope I'm not even a jerk. I'm morally conservative, but politically liberal. I've been called a "fundamentalist Christian" in that tone because I believe that if you are going to be a Christian, you should do what the Bible says. I've been called a "liberal" in that tone because I believe that poor people should be fed and clothed and be able to go to the doctor, that all people should share equal freedoms; because I believe that people take precedence over profits and hurting people for any reason is wrong; because I believe that we should protect our natural resources and walk with mindfulness on this earth; because I believe we all have a right to choose our lives. By my calculations, with the above statements, I've alienated just about all 3 of my readers. So be it.
I don't expect everyone to agree with me. I don't expect to always be right. I listen and I learn. I really do try hard to see things from as many directions as possible. It comes with a love of words, I believe. Hearing the words that others use to explain their views is fascinating to me, even if I don't agree. I try not to judge too harshly, because try to understand the person behind the words, the actions. What bits and pieces of experience and nonsense and bad days have brought them to this spot? How does this particular moment in time interweave with their lives whole cloth?
When did it get so hard to love? The battles I choose to fight are usually small and if not winnable, then at least manageable. The larger battles, I do what I can personally not to exacerbate things, but leave the fighting to those who have more intestinal fortitude than I. There are some alarming chinks in my armor.
I awoke this morning to reports of police raids, bulldozers, billy clubs, tear gas, sound cannons. I needn't go into details; a simple Google search will bring up plenty of news stories written from whatever angle you choose to view it. All I feel is grief. It's come to this: dividing, polarizing, hurting, screaming across barriers. If everyone is shouting, who will hear? How much does a NYC cop make? Can't be much. Aren't they part of this 99%? How does that work? If you have to do something in the middle of the night, keeping it a secret from the very people who are carrying it out, is it something you should be doing?
My dad used to speak in anchor points. It takes people who are out of bounds to move the anchor points of society, bit by painful bit. It feels as though I'm stuck in a tug-of-war for those anchor points with howling on both sides. Very much like that one year at summer camp, I just want to sit down in the mud and cry. When did it get so hard to love?
I don't have answers, I'm not even sure what all the questions are. I've chosen the ostrich approach to the world at large since about 2004 for my sake, for my children's sake. But some fearsome winds have been eroding that sand around my head for the last several months and the uncovered view seems mighty bleak sometimes.
This isn't a treatise or manifesto, an op-ed, or even a completely formed opinion. Just an honest outpouring of grief and confusion with very little editing or self-censorship. It's been building for a while and those bulldozers rushed in with police in riot gear and broke the dam. Apologies for lack of eloquence or even coherent thought. Sometimes there is something so large and unwieldy and chaotic inside me that stands up and screams "NO!"
Showing posts with label grief. Show all posts
Showing posts with label grief. Show all posts
Tuesday, November 15, 2011
Monday, August 1, 2011
Good Grief
My dad was born June 11, 1946. My dad died October 5, 2008. Here it is June 11, 2011 and I can't not remember that this date used to be his birthday. He would have been 65 today if he hadn't died suddenly while recovering nicely from a massive heart attack. More on that some other time.
My degree is in psychology. I counseled people for a living before I had kids. People with real problems. I knew the stages of grief down cold. I was prepared. Or, you know, not. I'm not sure anyone is ever prepared for grief. There are things that no one tells you ahead of time. Or maybe they do and you don't know how to hear them. The one thing I never read in a book is how utterly exhausting grief is.
I remember that first few months after he died like I lived inside a fish bowl and everyone around was hollering and tapping on the glass. Everything seemed muffled and amplified all at the same time. People around me became caricatures of themselves, their strongest qualities distorted and huge. Everything was a little bit too loud, too fast, a little out of sync. There was static. A radio in my head permanently stuck between two stations, fading in and out. Sometimes I couldn't hear the person talking to me or finish the sentence I'd started because of the noise. And all of this I kept to myself. Boom! Denial. I wouldn't talk about it because I didn't want to be a burden. I wouldn't cry in front of anyone because my kids needed me to be strong. I wouldn't complain about it because so many people had it worse than I did.
And then I totalled my car. With my kids in it. The noise in my head had gotten so loud, my sleep deprivation so intense, my concentration so flighty that red looked green and I went. T-boned, spinning, airbags, hit 4 other cars, screaming, orange juice and zucchini in the street, smash. No one was hurt. When the officer came to take my report of the accident I stood on the side of the road and sobbed "My dad died!" So long, Denial.
I've never blamed my dad for dying. I've never been angry at him for leaving me too soon. I've never been angry at God and fallen screaming to my knees "Why, God, why?! WHY????" Nope. None of that. Not Angry. Not me. Unless you count the time I suddenly shrieked at some poor soul from the bank. Well, there was that time that my husband chewed his cereal too loudly near me just one too many times. Or when that lady stood too close to me at the grocery check out. Or when that man wouldn't move his car so I could get out of my parking spot. I am not, was not a generally angry or impatient person. I did, however, have a few months of sudden and immense rage that would boil up and over so quickly and so violently that I felt very near passing out when it was through.
But oh! My babies. My poor, darling monkeys. They have to live with this insane, distant, distracted, erratic mother. What have I done?! My daughter was 4 and fully aware of the situation when Dad died. She dealt with it well and in the nature of kids, bounced back rather nicely I thought. Until one night, six months after he died, she burst into tears and howled:
"My chain is broken!"
"What, honey? What chain?"
"It was a chain and it was together and my family and Papa was at the top of it and now he's gone and it's broken and I miss hiiiiiiimmmm!"
Collapsed on the kitchen floor, sobbing with my wee girl, my Anger dissolved in her tears (mostly) and through no fault of hers, left some pretty fertile ground for Guilt and Depression. Not survivor's guilt. Griever's guilt. I thought I'd been holding up all right. I tried to keep any visible outbursts away from my monkeys. I tried to keep things as sane and life as usual around the house. And she saw me trying. She felt me trying. It stressed her out. It stressed me out. I'd failed her. Take any of your run of the mill maternal guilt (I'm not good enough, I'm screwing up my children, They will hate me and pierce their nipples when they get older, etc.) and multiply it times about a thousand. I also failed my husband who had to pick up my slack. I failed my mother and brother and sister who needed my strength. I failed my dad who wouldn't want to see me like this. I also failed a lady at the park whose kid wanted to play with my kid and it was time to go home. I failed the landlady, a very startled group of women at church, my best friend from high school, the PTA, anyone I had ever known who had lost a loved one, the US Postal Service, my cat. And, most of all, I failed myself. So let the Bargaining begin.
I cooked gourmet meals and brought them to everyone I knew who was sick, had surgery, a new baby, a hang nail, a bad day. I volunteered for everything that needed to be done. I sewed dragon costumes for my daughter's dance class and for my daughter's dance teacher's two other dance classes. I called my mother every day. I donated to every cause that knocked on my door. I listened to every old lady I sat next to on the bus. I cleaned the garage, the closets, under the fridge. I. Would. Do. This. I would make up for my grief. I would just work hard enough to pull us all through.
And then it was October again. I expected to be T-boned with raw emotion when the 5th rolled around and I braced myself for it. And then... nothing. Just relief. That year was done. I'd never have to do it again. I'd never again have to get that tear-soaked call from my mom in the wee hours of the morning. I'd never have to plan my dad's funeral again. I'd never have to have that first birthday, first Thanksgiving, first Christmas, first anything without him again. I was exhausted with grief. I was bored with it. I didn't want it grinding into my every day any more. After laboring and pushing it through for a year, I'd finally given birth to Acceptance and could just collapse in exhaustion and pull it close to my heart.
I've over-simplified, I've exaggerated, I've left out key details. I'm OK with that. Grief is necessary. Grief is messy and nonlinear, sometimes uncontrollable, irrational and insane. Grief is lonely. Grief is distracting and consuming. Grief is exhausting. And, ultimately, there comes a point where grief is just plain boring. I celebrated my dad's would-have-been birthday today by playing in the yard with the kids, chatting with the neighbors, harassing an old friend, laughing with my mom, discussing furniture hardware and soccer with my husband, taking a nap and eating a cheeseburger. Good grief.
(Originally written 11 June 2011)
My degree is in psychology. I counseled people for a living before I had kids. People with real problems. I knew the stages of grief down cold. I was prepared. Or, you know, not. I'm not sure anyone is ever prepared for grief. There are things that no one tells you ahead of time. Or maybe they do and you don't know how to hear them. The one thing I never read in a book is how utterly exhausting grief is.
I remember that first few months after he died like I lived inside a fish bowl and everyone around was hollering and tapping on the glass. Everything seemed muffled and amplified all at the same time. People around me became caricatures of themselves, their strongest qualities distorted and huge. Everything was a little bit too loud, too fast, a little out of sync. There was static. A radio in my head permanently stuck between two stations, fading in and out. Sometimes I couldn't hear the person talking to me or finish the sentence I'd started because of the noise. And all of this I kept to myself. Boom! Denial. I wouldn't talk about it because I didn't want to be a burden. I wouldn't cry in front of anyone because my kids needed me to be strong. I wouldn't complain about it because so many people had it worse than I did.
And then I totalled my car. With my kids in it. The noise in my head had gotten so loud, my sleep deprivation so intense, my concentration so flighty that red looked green and I went. T-boned, spinning, airbags, hit 4 other cars, screaming, orange juice and zucchini in the street, smash. No one was hurt. When the officer came to take my report of the accident I stood on the side of the road and sobbed "My dad died!" So long, Denial.
I've never blamed my dad for dying. I've never been angry at him for leaving me too soon. I've never been angry at God and fallen screaming to my knees "Why, God, why?! WHY????" Nope. None of that. Not Angry. Not me. Unless you count the time I suddenly shrieked at some poor soul from the bank. Well, there was that time that my husband chewed his cereal too loudly near me just one too many times. Or when that lady stood too close to me at the grocery check out. Or when that man wouldn't move his car so I could get out of my parking spot. I am not, was not a generally angry or impatient person. I did, however, have a few months of sudden and immense rage that would boil up and over so quickly and so violently that I felt very near passing out when it was through.
But oh! My babies. My poor, darling monkeys. They have to live with this insane, distant, distracted, erratic mother. What have I done?! My daughter was 4 and fully aware of the situation when Dad died. She dealt with it well and in the nature of kids, bounced back rather nicely I thought. Until one night, six months after he died, she burst into tears and howled:
"My chain is broken!"
"What, honey? What chain?"
"It was a chain and it was together and my family and Papa was at the top of it and now he's gone and it's broken and I miss hiiiiiiimmmm!"
Collapsed on the kitchen floor, sobbing with my wee girl, my Anger dissolved in her tears (mostly) and through no fault of hers, left some pretty fertile ground for Guilt and Depression. Not survivor's guilt. Griever's guilt. I thought I'd been holding up all right. I tried to keep any visible outbursts away from my monkeys. I tried to keep things as sane and life as usual around the house. And she saw me trying. She felt me trying. It stressed her out. It stressed me out. I'd failed her. Take any of your run of the mill maternal guilt (I'm not good enough, I'm screwing up my children, They will hate me and pierce their nipples when they get older, etc.) and multiply it times about a thousand. I also failed my husband who had to pick up my slack. I failed my mother and brother and sister who needed my strength. I failed my dad who wouldn't want to see me like this. I also failed a lady at the park whose kid wanted to play with my kid and it was time to go home. I failed the landlady, a very startled group of women at church, my best friend from high school, the PTA, anyone I had ever known who had lost a loved one, the US Postal Service, my cat. And, most of all, I failed myself. So let the Bargaining begin.
I cooked gourmet meals and brought them to everyone I knew who was sick, had surgery, a new baby, a hang nail, a bad day. I volunteered for everything that needed to be done. I sewed dragon costumes for my daughter's dance class and for my daughter's dance teacher's two other dance classes. I called my mother every day. I donated to every cause that knocked on my door. I listened to every old lady I sat next to on the bus. I cleaned the garage, the closets, under the fridge. I. Would. Do. This. I would make up for my grief. I would just work hard enough to pull us all through.
And then it was October again. I expected to be T-boned with raw emotion when the 5th rolled around and I braced myself for it. And then... nothing. Just relief. That year was done. I'd never have to do it again. I'd never again have to get that tear-soaked call from my mom in the wee hours of the morning. I'd never have to plan my dad's funeral again. I'd never have to have that first birthday, first Thanksgiving, first Christmas, first anything without him again. I was exhausted with grief. I was bored with it. I didn't want it grinding into my every day any more. After laboring and pushing it through for a year, I'd finally given birth to Acceptance and could just collapse in exhaustion and pull it close to my heart.
I've over-simplified, I've exaggerated, I've left out key details. I'm OK with that. Grief is necessary. Grief is messy and nonlinear, sometimes uncontrollable, irrational and insane. Grief is lonely. Grief is distracting and consuming. Grief is exhausting. And, ultimately, there comes a point where grief is just plain boring. I celebrated my dad's would-have-been birthday today by playing in the yard with the kids, chatting with the neighbors, harassing an old friend, laughing with my mom, discussing furniture hardware and soccer with my husband, taking a nap and eating a cheeseburger. Good grief.
(Originally written 11 June 2011)
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