Archives for category: grief

Morning again. I woke ahead of the alarm clock, a bit wistful that it wasn’t much earlier; I’d have enjoyed going back to sleep for a while. I woke, showered, made coffee, and wondered all the while at how easily our fears can change our minds, or our behavior. Mine, too, I’m not immune. Sure, I’m not feeling backed into a corner over recent terrorist attacks, lashing out in anger underscored by fear against an ‘enemy’ I don’t know and can’t define. Instead, my fears hit me very close to home, in the night, frozen while I listen to a neighbor wail. It was last night, and it was the sort of cry in the darkness that sources with terrible grief and pain. I have made such sounds, and felt feelings that project such sounds into the darkness… but I took no action last night. I laid quietly, very still, feeling distant fear wash over me, wondering…locked in the past, and fearing someone else’s moment, until quiet came and sleep overtook me.

I hesitate to load myself down with ‘should haves’, but I find myself facing the woman in the mirror with a firm question this morning. “Why did you not act?” Because, I could have – I live next door. To dress and knock on the door and ask the simple question “Are you okay? Can I help?” could mean so much to someone in distress. I didn’t go and I didn’t ask the question. My distant ancient fear got to me first, and I lay still in the night, frightened and wondering. I am able to make choices that result in being a better person than I was yesterday. I take a moment for gratitude that I live, really, such a singularly peaceful life day-to-day, these days. It’s hard to spell out how much that matters, or how much I value it. Contrasting experiences, like my neighbor’s distress in the night, are powerful reminders how far I have come since those long ago years when I was the one wailing in the darkness, terrified and wounded.

I sip my coffee and prepare for the work day. Here too there is room for gratitude and a moment of appreciation; I’ve gotten past much of my work stress, and regained my balance by restoring my perspective on having a job, in general. I have a good action plan for making significant improvements in my overall experience of working, and yes there are verbs involved, and change. I’ve remembered to shift the emotional investment in my experience back into my own experience of my time and life with myself, and firmly away from the tasks required during working hours to meet the needs of employment; it’s a job, and only that. Allowing my professional commitment in return for a well-earned paycheck to become anything more significant than that in the way I view myself holds so much potential discontent and frustration, for me personally. I am excited about the future, and although I don’t expect most plans to turn out as planned when life unfolds, I do find a bit of planning quite nice as a starting point. A plan is a map with which to begin again.

Every sunrise is a chance to begin again.

Every sunrise is a chance to begin again.

I am no stranger to violence. It saddens me deeply every time I learn there has been yet another horrible attack on human life. It sickens me to acknowledge that each and every one represents a pinpoint of darkness, a flaw in a gem of great beauty; we are so very human, and these unrelenting repeated acts of terror and violence are willful – they are choices. Human beings choosing to inflict violence upon other human beings. Being hurt enough, angry enough, to want to choose violence isn’t foreign to me; I am so very human. To enact violence on another person as an actual action, an act of will following an intention, isn’t something that seems so easy, or so obvious. I sometimes feel quite certain humanity is entirely doomed if we do not find a way to soothe the souls of the injured, the enraged, the powerless – and learn to treat each other, one and all, truly well and with great kindness and compassion. I wonder why the verbs involved are not embraced more freely, and with greater enthusiasm?

I look out into the darkness for signs of light.

I look out into the darkness for signs of light.

These are just words. There are verbs involved and I will surely do my part; I will not kill anyone today, or lash out violently in anger, or frustration. I will not impose my will on anyone else by force or coercion. I can do at least this much myself to end global violence; it’s no small thing, and if we each make the same choice and commitment, well – you see how that works out, right?

Interconnected, we are all in this together, and each having our own experience.

Interconnected, we are all in this together, and each having our own experience.

I am relaxing over my morning coffee, grateful that this small peaceful space feels safe and secure. Brunch with a friend, some small bit of shopping later. I reflect with gratitude on how unlikely it is that I will meet with violence, and remind myself that allowing the violence in the world to win begins with the smallest thing – allowing it to change my experience of this moment, here, now, slowly letting it become my experience, coloring all things. I won’t be doing that.

Today is a good day to treat each other well. It is a good day to begin again, and to walk on from what not worked out well before. Today is a good day to choose love, to be love. Today is a good day to change the world.

It’s seems true that when I become complacent I put myself at risk of failure, mostly by decreasing my moment-to-moment awareness of all the other sorts of risk. If I stop paying attention, I am more likely to misjudge distance, make a mistake, or make a choice that seems useful in that moment, unaware what a poor fit it will be for the next. Things get broken.

I don’t break very much stuff, generally, but I also live the self-perception that I ‘am clumsy’ and am (or if not now, once was) inclined to break things ‘by accident’ through careless handling. I got yelled at a lot for it (and worse). Over time, I developed careful habits and as an adult in her 50s (and as far back as my late 20s), I rarely break things. I do now and then; I am human. For so many years, breaking or losing something would just devastate me – it felt like a portion of my memory and experience were being ripped from my grasp, each possession being a sort of totem or artifact of some particular experience or memory. I learned, over time, to cling to possessions – not because having  material goods is a big deal, but each precious thing holds the power to bring my memory to life, and I don’t want to forget.

Someone else breaking something of mine has been easily able to wound me on a deeply emotional level – particularly if the damage is willfully wrought by angry hands. It has been traumatizing. Damaging. Part of that pain likely comes from the incorrect assumption that someone else has any real capacity to understand how much pain such things can cause me, and that they know how they are hurting me – it’s doubtful they do; it’s not rational-reasonable-appropriate. That thinking is part of the chaos and damage. To be so easily hurt by something being broken has long been part of who I am. The willful breaking of a lovely stemless wine glass by someone in a fit of rage permanently changed a promising long-term relationship, for example; that person never looked the same in my eyes, and I lost all ability to feel comfortable or secure around that individual, compounded by their lack of concern, lack of caring or awareness, and the lack of even a pro forma apology, the experience said things to me I could not ignore. But…

We've all got baggage.

We’ve all got baggage.

The baggage is my own, and it’s been heavy to lug around so much attachment to so many things. Like Jacob Marley’s chains. Oh, shit – is that the point of that? I just got that.

Details

Hand-crafted luggage.

Last night as I moved through the small hallway of my apartment, I noticed… my foot. I have two of them, they are right there at the bottom of my legs, and I’m often standing on them. I generally have no real awareness of the compression of feet to floor and body above, but for a moment my left foot felt strange – like I had trod across scotch tape, or gum, or… like something was sticking to the bottom of my foot. I stopped where I was and reached out for balance, standing on one foot. I grabbed the top of my desk (meaning, I think, to put my hand on the wall), forgetting that the hutch has remained free-standing all this time – because when I moved in, I was not sure this would be the permanent placement for the desk. (You know where this is going, right?) I jostled that hutch, and it wobbled a bit – and everything on top came crashing down, bouncing off the desk, off the keyboard, off the chair, spilling memories and small bits of things all over the floor. As I exclaimed, I grabbed the edge of the hutch firmly and steadied it; it didn’t fall.

Memories everywhere. Broken small breakables…everywhere. Well, not everywhere – just all over the carpet in a blast pattern from the desk to the kitchen. Something important didn’t break – and this is the point of this entire bit of writing this morning; the one thing that didn’t break, the most important thing, is my heart. No tears. No freak out. No despair or devastation. No feeling that these memories were now ‘gone forever’. No sense that I had ‘lost everything’. No fear that I would not be able to ‘fix it before anyone notices’. No terror. I wasn’t even mad. It was an ‘oh, damn, well let’s get that cleaned up’ sort of moment, and nothing more. This stopped me in my tracks, briefly . I sat down, took stock of the chaos, and then got to work picking it up, filled with a feeling of love and compassion for the years that I carried so much pain over such tiny things, and finally understanding how connected the experience was to the domestic violence in my first marriage, as much as to my injury; although I noticed the lack of sorrow and tears, what stood out most last night was the lack of fear.

There were some casualties, but it is the memories that are precious, more than the things.

There were some casualties, but it is the memories that are precious, more than the things.

I spent the remainder of the evening in a celebratory mood. It’s worth celebrating incremental change, and growth and healing over time. I savored the experience of feeling calm in the face of the sudden disarray of precious things, and I enjoyed handling each broken item with joy and contemplation of its significance and appeal. I sorted things as I went… this one can be fixed… this one turns out not to matter much… this one isn’t damaged… this one is beyond repair… this one might become something new… No tears. I wondered, at the time, if I would at some point suddenly find myself weeping with some small object clutched in my hands, hysterical with sorrow, as has happened so many times. It hasn’t happened yet. I am not that woman, now.

I think it is worth observing that while I find this a profoundly positive bit of growth, I didn’t chase it down aggressively and practice practices targeting the experience of despair and grief over the loss of small things. The improvement was a ‘freebie’ – a byproduct of practicing practices, general good self-care, improving my relationship with myself, learning to treat myself as well as I also want to treat others, and improving on my sense of perspective in life. Incremental change over time being what it is, once I had changed enough, I noticed it. Last night was like an unexpected gift from a loved one – only this one is from me, to myself (and still manages to be a surprise).

Learning to treat myself well, and take care of me with skill feels like a homecoming.

Learning to treat myself well, and take care of me with skill feels like a homecoming.

Today is a good day to take care of me. As it turns out, practicing good self-care can change the way the world feels. 🙂

Should I even be writing, right now? Possibly not; something is clearly amiss, and I don’t know what. It started out as just a tiny bit of aggravation in the morning when my consciousness stumbled on an unasked question…what do I do with unasked questions? Well…generally… I ask them. Like words spoken aloud to another person, a question asked in the stillness of my consciousness lingers – answered or not. Since then, my day has seemed…off. One tiny thing after another… small, so small… the car I reserved was replaced with something different for an unspecified reason. Small.

There was less than a quarter tank of gas in the car, forcing me to detour shortly after I picked up the car, against a time crunch; the gas station attendant had never refueled a zip car. Small. He told me the card wouldn’t run; he didn’t realize that the reason I gave him two cards is that one had my ID # on it… apparently. Small. I wait to be refueled after finally sorting all that out with the very surly attendant. He comes back to the vehicle, hands me back both cards and says ‘That’s it, you’re all set.” I say thanks, he walks away – I start the car and prepare to pull out and freak the guy right out; the fuel nozzle is still in my car!! Apparently no, I wasn’t “all set” – or he and I had very different ideas of what “all set” means in the context of refilling my gas tank. Yelling at me in that nasty way wasn’t necessary. I know not to take it personally…it adds to the tone of the day.  Small.

Work sucked in some vague unsettling way; I feel like I’m defending my position every day, which is not comfortable at all. I also have a subtle sense that I am being ‘set up for failure’ which makes me uneasy. Feeling uncomfortable, unsettled, and uneasy are a poor fit for my particular issues – the result is problematic for interacting with others; I feel distrustful, suspicious, and on the defensive – not a good work environment for thinking, for detail oriented work, or for enjoying myself professionally. Nope, it kind of just blows. Is it work though…or is it me? Realistically, I do have to consider that question, too, because it very likely could be me.

See what I mean though? Small things, piling on, and by evening I am at the edge of tears – and at the edge of not wanting to go on. Yes – it’s as dire as it sounds, and I didn’t ease the strain on your own consciousness by softening the words. No, I’m not likely to act on feelings of despair, futility, and bleak resignation these days – or certainly not in any immediate way. It’s not who I am. I’m human, though, and I feel these feelings as intensely as any of the good ones – sometimes it seems these dark times are more intense, which hardly seems fair at all. It’s already hard enough to drag myself out of the muck, back into the light of hope, and promise, and tender kind self-care when I’m just struggling with pain or fatigue or a headache.

Shit – what set me off, right? So hard to be sure… physical pain? I deal with it every day – even the good ones. Blood sugar too low? That’s a sure-fire shitty mood in the making, and I didn’t get lunch calories on time – so that’s a maybe. I took care of that a couple of hours ago; it’s not the likely cause of the tears cooling on my cheeks now. Something set me off, and it started much earlier today… sometime around when it occurred to me to ask that unasked question. Are you curious? It was this… “What is my safety net if I lose my job, now that I live alone?” This was followed quickly by “Or what if I am seriously injured and can’t work any more? What then?” When my traveling partner lost a job years ago, I was there for him – he moved in with me, and I covered his expenses as long as he needed me too, we shared the load. When I lost a job, he was there for me, keeping me motivated, and taking care of anything he could to ensure that I could focus on my job search. When we shared a living arrangement with another partner, we were both there for her both times she lost a job, and for months.  Hell, I returned to the workforce, after I left one job for my health, to support our family when she lost her job unexpectedly. There was no question for me that this is what I do for my loved ones…only… what about me? If I lose my job now, living alone… what then? If I couldn’t work? What then? There is no one here to come home to…

Don’t get me wrong, things happen, and people manage all the time – some with incredible grace and skill and emotional balance. I’m sure I’d probably get by okay, (I always have) and I’ve never been out of work very long… although I’d be a fool if I thought that were a given. Insecurity and doubt don’t give a shit about data. Fear is an ass kicker as emotions go. Anxiety… yeah. Anxiety is an emotion that doesn’t fuck around – she’s out for pure destruction, accompanied by mocking laughter.

So. Yeah. This evening is hard. I’m writing about it because sometimes that changes things, provides me with perspective. I feel more than a little lost right now and it’s time to break out the checklist, and go down the list one thing at a time, practicing the practices, and letting the tears fall. My worst fears rarely prove to be ‘real’. The worst of my anxiety seldom lives up to the dreaded outcome promised. My doubts and insecurities are no more real than daydreams of winning the lottery. “This too will pass.” I know that – I do know that. I’m pretty sure that this sort of shit is called ‘mental illness’ precisely because I do know that – and still feel this. This? This right here is PTSD. Every scrap of this emotion feels completely irresistibly rational and real, and my brain wants very much to support it with ‘evidence’, with ‘proof’ – or at least some very persuasive argument. I undermine those efforts with mindfulness, with breathing, with awareness – refraining from feeding the demons is definitely a good practice, and it’s a place to start. I definitely don’t make decisions from this vantage point.

“I’m okay right now“. It’s a pretty critical observation, when shit goes sideways unexpectedly. It’s hard to argue with a quiet room, and solitude when it’s time to ask “who is responsible for this moment right now?” There are verbs involved, and it just isn’t as easy as it looks on paper, from the perspective of a better moment, on a different day. So here we are alone together, the woman in the mirror and I – and the self-care still matters, and the self-work is still hard, and the PTSD is still a thing, and my injury is still what it is (which is generally an inconvenient and somewhat embarrassing pain in the ass) – and the choices for how to deal with all of that still belong to me. I can only do my best – and that has to be enough.

I can begin again.

I can begin again.

Update: Just a bit later. Self-care basics are so huge. I went down my checklist and there it was – I wasn’t in much pain this morning, and although I took some of my Rx meds first thing in the morning, I overlooked later medication, and entirely overlooked the cannabis extract that is so important to my day-to-day well-being (it is the most effective thing for managing the emotional volatility of my PTSD). It’s a foolish mistake with consequences that are uncomfortable – but I really am okay, and that really is enough.

It’s been awhile since I was awake in the wee hours. I woke in tears with no recollection why I might be crying. I got a drink of water and ‘checked for monsters’ (walked through the small apartment quietly drinking my glass of water and assuring myself all is well). I went back to bed. That was more than an hour ago. I wasn’t going back to sleep, and the tears just kept sliding across my face. So.

It’s been a long while since I was awake in the wee hours. It wasn’t so long ago that it was a frequent thing, destroying my rest, throwing me off-balance, and fatiguing me well beyond any healthy sustainable point. I’m glad it isn’t every night any more. I’m appreciative that it isn’t even every week; it’s become quite rare… But I’m awake now. Tonight I am not sleeping through the night.

The wakefulness itself causes me no great stress. The feelings of insecurity and doubt, on the other hand, drive anxiety. On top of existing work stress, and common enough life stress,  I add stress in a valued, critically important (to me) relationship that suddenly feels far less secure than I generally take it to be. I am unsurprised that I am awake, or that I am overcome by waves of emotion attached to the thoughts about my experience: sad, insecure, doubtful, angry, hurt, frustrated, disappointed… did I mention sad? I did not get out of bed at 3 am to ‘enjoy’ the experience more intensely; I got up to reduce the intensity. I was not finding much success with distracting myself and getting back to dream land lying there in bed. My thoughts kept carrying me back to sad.

There is no miracle pill for sad wakefulness, or the tears that won’t quit at 3 am. There are a great many practices that ease my suffering, though. I get up and do some yoga; the focus on my physical body, and easing physical stress feels good. I drink a glass of water; crying makes me thirsty. I meditate, nothing fancy, no soundtrack, no light – just sitting in the stillness, in the darkness, focused on my breath, no timer – just time. I write. With just a few words in the night, I pause the flood of emotion to look at things from a more abstract observational perspective, giving myself a little distance from the hurting, and a chance to ‘edit the language’ as I see it in text on page instead of lit up boldly in the chemistry of my brain. It actually does make a difference [for me] to take the time to remove or change the adjectives and adverbs, correct the syntax, re-evaluate the thinking. So much easier to do that seeing it in written words [for me]. I read my experience from the edited perspective. I read it again. I am no longer crying.

Tomorrow is a work day. I haven’t set myself up for success there by being awake during the night – but being awake during the night and crying generally has an even less desirable outcome, emotionally. I feel valued to take the time with myself to ease the suffering I am experiencing, however much I can. I am definitely having my own experience. There is no lover here to hold me in the darkness and tell me everything will be okay – and maybe it won’t be. It generally will be, though, for at least some values of ‘okay’.

Small stressors keep piling up. The loss of aesthetic beauty of my wee home. The loss of day-to-day quiet here. The increasing tension and discontent in the workplace. The increasing insecurity and doubt in an important relationship. The lack of personal skill at coping with it when solitude becomes loneliness. The loss of intimacy and physical contact in my every day life. The chaos brought to my life through the exterior work being done in the community – it’s actually stressing me out to see paintings stacked differently for the convenience of contractors, or to see the A/C just sort of …sitting, no good place to store it, and such a small apartment. Lingering bitterness – not over old hurts themselves, but over the lack of being understood, the lack of consideration – or even awareness. I guess this is when I get to put new emotional resilience to the test, and find out whether all of the time and practice invested in emotional self-sufficiency will be enough to survive on. I’d like to thrive. It’s on my list of nice things to do for me. Maybe another time.

I feel very alone right now. Oddly, I notice the ticking clock – and realize there is no additional stress to being aware of the sound of it. I find some comfort in that. It’s a small thing, but it is meaningful that the ticking of the clock does not cause me stress, or anxiety. You know… sitting here in the darkness, at 3:34 am, that’s enough. It’s at least something – it’s incremental change over time. I think I’ll go back to bed.

It will be dawn soon enough. I will begin again.

It will be dawn soon enough. I will begin again.