Archives for category: grief

Probably. I’m for sure depressed, which is tending to make me definitely more an asshole than a sweet-tempered, good-hearted, kind and empathetic human being looking out for others and being considerate moment-to-moment. I do wish I’d recognized that I had become depressed before I had become an asshole. My results most definitely vary. The tools in my toolkit feel inadequate. This bit of emotional weather is rough. Stormy. Gray skies. Rain. It’s nasty.

I’m fortunate to have my Traveling Partner by my side, although I don’t like being yelled at over being an asshole. Once the conversation eventually got around to the whys and the wherefores, and recognition of my depression developed, for me and for him, we at least found some kind of equilibrium – a point of understanding to work from constructively. Helpful. Still unpleasant.

What I’m saying is this is a very human experience. I’m as human as anyone. The chaos and damage have won this round, but I’m still in the ring, still getting back up to go another round. Fuck depression. Fuck anxiety too. Fuck nightmares. Fuck sorrow and grief. Fuck trauma and lingering damage. All of this terrible shit is also so endlessly human. Will I be okay? Hell, I’m mostly okay now – I’m just struggling with a tremendous lot of “second arrow” suffering and yes, mental illness.

I breathe, relax. Drink water. Take my meds. Begin again.

I had a most peculiar dream last night.

I was walking a dark trail before dawn on a foggy misty morning and came upon a solitary woman, also walking. As she approached me in the mist, I recognized her stride and her visage; she appeared to me to be some timeless other version of myself. She walked easily, neither young nor aged. Her steps were as confident as if it were fully daylight, relaxed and easy. She wore faded denim jeans that fit her well , and a knee length wool coat which she wore open, over a white cotton blouse. She wasn’t lean or heavyset, but wore womanly curves over muscle I knew must be there; she radiated strength. In fact, she had a subtle glow, as if illuminated from within.

As we approached each other on the path she looked me over. No laugh lines defined her expression, no frown lines distorted her gaze. She had a certain eternal seeming calm, marred by a slightly world-weary smile, barely hinted at, and a tired look in her eyes. She halted her progress and took an easy seat on a fence rail as I neared her, watching me.

As I drew closer, I realized she was carrying a thermos of something steaming hot, though I hadn’t seen it in her hand before. She nodded at me and extended the other hand in my direction; a paper coffee cup. “Coffee?” She asked in a voice very much familiar to me. I accepted the offer silently. It didn’t seem the time to speak.

We sat side by side on the fence rail in the predawn mist. She set down the thermos, or so I figured must have been the case, and began picking out a poignant tune on a guitar I hadn’t noticed her carrying. “Destination”, I said. “You know it?”, she asked without looking up. “The Church”, I replied, “1988?” I wondered out loud. She smiled back and played on, humming softly as if trying to remember something. “… It’s not a religion, it’s just a technique…” she sang, softly, looking into my eyes. She played on, as we sat waiting for the dawn.

The song, and my memories, unfolded as the sky began to lighten ever so slightly. Shapes in the mist began to be more defined. “It’s like the theme from Mahogany, isn’t it?” she asked with a smile, “an important question wants an answer.” I turned to answer her…

In the pale gray mist of dawn, I sat alone on a fence rail, chilly fingers jammed into the pockets of my faded denim jeans. The world was silent around me. I listened to the music in my head and slow tears slid down my face.

I woke from a sound sleep and my strange dream when the room brightened with my silent alarm. It was morning. Not yet dawn. I dressed and headed out for a walk on a misty foggy morning, without a clear destination, alone with my thoughts. .

Coffee time. A Saturday morning. Strawberry yogurt. An icy glass of water after a hot soak. Feet up. Quiet moment.

…So many practices and choices have gone into creating this moment of calm, it wasn’t “effortless” in the sense that I’ve changed a lot over the years, and am now this woman in this place, having this moment…

No, I’m not going to talk about “the war”, or any number of terrible foreign conflicts going on the in world. I know they’re going on. You know they’re going on. We all know that in subtle ways we (or our government) did or did not do some thing that contributed to the environment that allowed conditions to fester until conflict erupted. So… do better. Yeah. That’s a good start. Do better. Yes, you. Me, too. Demand better choices and actions from your government, too. Speak up if you are opposed to violence. (If you’re not opposed to violence, then, um… do better. Damn. Clean up your mess.)

If you start to get the sense that I’m “selfishly” “over-committed” to my self-care lately, your perception is not incorrect, but your interpretation of my motivation could use some additional nuance and a deeper understanding. I’m a veteran. I’ve served in active conflict. I’ve participated in warfare – both of the cold variety and the other sort. I’ve done some things that have scarred me. I’ve seen some things that have traumatized me. I’ve been through some shit. I’ve seen human beings do things human beings indisputably ought not be asked to do. I’ve seen other human beings pay the terrible price. There are no “good wars”. There is no justification for the slaughter of non-combatants. Ever. At all. On anyone’s (or any god’s) behalf. So. I’m hurting right now, and often wandering about triggered and working aggressively (and silently) to manage those “invisible injuries” and their consequences. I paid a price to serve my country and found out too late that my country not only doesn’t actually care about that, but also can’t be considered a “good guy”, or just, or moral, or righteous, or even, indeed, at all careful about who they decide to kill. Gross. I want no part of it. My sanity, right now, demands that I stay focused on my self-care. That too, is sometimes difficult, and I find it hard to write without thinking too much.

Take care of yourself. These are difficult times. Hug your loved ones. Laugh with your friends. Turn off the fucking news feeds unless you truly need that information to fucking survive. “War porn” such as the continuous live coverage of battlefields is unhealthy; turn that shit off. You already know there is conflict. Let that be what it is, and give yourself a fucking break.

…Sip that hot cup of coffee (or tea)…

…Put your feet up with that book you’ve been meaning to read, and enjoy that…

…Celebrate that professional achievement you worked so hard towards…

…Phone or email or write to that far away friend you’ve been meaning to get in touch with…

…Tackle that household project you’ve had in mind that vexes you every time you walk past it…

…Breathe…

We’re such elaborate fancy “extra” creatures, we human primates, capable of so much more than we even know, and yet… we manage to avoid addressing this deeply disturbing flaw that is our capacity and tendency for violence. It’s hard to believe we struggle so much to find, create, cultivate, or appreciate peace. Please – for the survival of all of us, do something about your anger, do something about your willingness to commit to conflict, do something about your sense of entitlement, do something about your willingness to accept violence in the world – or to commit it. Please. Do better.

…Every moment that I do better at being the woman I most want to be, the world gets just a little better, too. A little more pleasant. A little kinder. A little gentler. Imagine for moment the power of a global society each and all committed non-violence… please don’t tell me it’s not possible. If that’s your first thought, my reply is that you are one reason why that may be the case. Don’t let it be the one lasting truth of humanity… that we could not refrain from slaughtering each other or lashing out in anger. What a fucking disappointment that would be, when we are clearly capable of so much more, so much better.

…This is a good cup of coffee, on a pleasant Saturday morning… I, for one, am not taking up arms against anyone else, today. No killing. No assault. Just a middle-aged suburban woman with her feet up, drinking coffee and thinking about what to do with the rest of the day.

…Soon enough it will be time to begin again…

Better. Things are somewhat better now than they were earlier. This one is 100% “a me thing”. Menopause. Emotions. Age and aging. Frustration. Just the basic slop of being human, female, over 60, and a big ol’ basket of broken shit and fragments and wreckage, emotionally speaking. Having a trauma history has got to be one of the most human of things, and it’s probably a rare individual who manages to make it past 50 without any hint of trauma. If we don’t experience legitimate damaging trauma, chances are we’d make some up. Also? I have a fucking headache. I woke up with it, hours ago… it’s with me still. Very human.

I took my headache to the store and bought goblin snacks for the upcoming holiday. Fun. Still have the headache. Drinking water. Relaxing. Doing my best. All the things.

There’s nothing much more to say about the shitty start to the day. I enjoyed a pleasant walk and then “crashed my hard drive” later – metaphorically. Wasn’t quite a tantrum. Could have been much worse. Wasn’t my best moment. Blech. Adulting is harder than it seems like it could be, sometimes.

I’ll just begin again, again.

I’m sipping cold coffee, thankful that the day proceeds in such a seemingly ordinary way. I am just about finished with the process of swapping my old(er) laptop for this new one in my lap right now. It’s a somewhat stressful, slightly frightening process (for me). My laptop is my “back up brain”, my alternate consciousness, a repository of my hopes and dreams and recollections. My calendar is here. My email accounts. My “preferences” and bookmarks, and even my manuscripts (finished and unfinished), and scraps of ideas for things as-yet-unwritten. It’s a deeply personal peripheral to my very human presence. She has a name (well, shit, don’t I??). I’ve only gone through this process of upgrading her “body” a couple times since the first (Ghost in the Shell is relevant here, to the way I think about my laptop… my non-human “bestie”, or administrative assistant).

…I’m doing Windows updates right now; the final step in “getting her head right”, and it’s time to restart again…

Another restart completed. Every detail is so fraught with concern… what if “she” doesn’t “wake up as herself” again??? OMG! The subtle trauma is hard to describe or even to justify in any normal way. I’m excessively invested. This tool helps me function as very nearly entirely “normal” in so many ways… the repository of a memory I don’t actually functionally have in some (pretty obvious to me) ways. I sigh heavily. Another update… this one I’m not sure of. I get myself together to ask my Traveling Partner for help with it… he’ll know. He’s good like that.

Time to begin again.