"Hello darkness, my old friend
I've come to talk with you again..."
- "The Sound of Silence," Simon & Garfunkel
This feeling is familiar, and yet new. I've been struggling to categorize and catalog it for months, with no luck.
Mostly, it's exhaustion.
I have to finally come to terms with the fact that these last years are kicking my butt.
Part of the problem is that I'm very good in an actual crisis. Calm, clear headed, efficient, helpful, unflagging - you want me around when there's trouble. It's after the trouble itself has passed and the danger is gone, or the trauma is past, that I come undone.
Part of it is that there's nothing tragic going on. This is just normal stuff, a normal life. But, objectively, I have to admit that things are adding up.
Arbitrarily, let's pick the mark of three years ago. I've had three major surgeries in three years. They all went well. I recovered nicely. Still, I'm in residual pain, and fundamental things - for instance, how I walk - are forever altered. My endocrine system is shot, and my body chemistry has been forcibly altered. Those things are tiring, in and of themselves.
I have ongoing health issues, and I'm developing a deep, unwanted hostility and hatred for insurance companies. Not helpful.
My mother is gone. We'll soon come up on the second anniversary of her death. I have been unable to attend church on Mother's Day since she passed. So often, I want to call her, want to visit her, and I can't.
My childhood best friend passed away; he was 48. If you want to know how tightly someone is woven into your life, pull that thread loose. Sometimes it feels like everything will unravel. He touched everything in my life, from the time that I was 14.
My son left for college hundreds of miles away. It was easier than sending his sisters, because he's the third child, and we've Been There, Done That. It was also harder, because his older sisters attended public school and left the house at 6:30 am, often not returning until 10 pm or later. My son was homeschooled, so even when he worked 5 or 6 hours a day, he was home with us for hours a day. His absence is more noticeable.
Part of it is that I've been down the rabbit hole, and I'm together enough to recognize that I'm not there. I remember that a bit too vividly. Twice in my life I've had breakdowns so complete that they blackened the sky, choked the air with ash, just consumed everything in their path. This is not one of those times. (And for this, I thank God.)
There are times of great joy and deep contentment, and lots of normalcy, and I honestly think that I've handled everything well, but do you know how I can tell that I haven't? Or, maybe I have, but that hyper competent period is wearing off. Stuff I should be able to shrug off doesn't shrug. It gnaws at my extremities like some annoying, rabid animal.
"Because a vision softly creeping
Left its seeds while I was sleeping
And the vision that was planted in my brain
Still remains."
The other day, I was thrown into mourning for the fact that my two closest girlfriends moved away after high school. I mean, I handled this clear back in 1984, and suddenly my middle aged self is in tears. What gives?
OK, maybe that's easy to diagnose. I keep seeing in my head two absolutely beautiful smiling brunet high school boys, and all the memories shared with them, and they're both dead now. As time goes on, there will be fewer of Us left, the ragtag community, the family we created for ourselves, the group of former kids who were my life in high school, who still populate my life now. We'll all leave each other sometime. I've become (probably annoyingly) effusive, reminding them how much I have always adored them. I fear becoming clingy and syrupy and maudlin.
Circumstances are preventing me from doing a lot of otherwise normal stuff, like auditioning. I was in a show, had just started rehearsals, when my mom passed away. I had the presence of mind to step down from a major role to a chorus role, but I had no business being in a show. My head was not in the game. I need solitude when I'm hurt - I'm like a canine who needs to find a den and lick my wounds. I stayed because I've never dropped out of a show, and I also hoped that doing normal things would help. During times of stress, I crave normalcy. I hoped that it would feel normal. I didn't even tell anyone that my mom had passed away until we were performing, and then I told all of four people in a cast and crew of dozens.
It never did feel normal. Months of rehearsal, and it never felt right. It felt empty. And good heavens, let's not even talk about the work I did. The work stunk. I also, for the first time in my lifetime, since I started acting at 12 years old, missed an entrance - missed an entire scene - during a performance. That's just unacceptable. That's more humiliating than being naked in public. It's horrifying to even admit. And yet, I think that maybe three people even noticed. I was only in two freakin' scenes - crowd scenes. I was so unnecessary and expendable, yet knocking myself out trying to do a decent job. Yet I was not thinking clearly enough to see that I should have bowed out entirely.
I hear that being intoxicated is like that - you honestly can't tell whether or not you're functional.
I recently looked back at the photos I shot of the show, and I was pleased to discover that they were good. That part of me continued to function quite well. That was nice to know.
I'm finally reaching the point that maybe I could handle a show. But, months of being wheelchair bound, and more time with my feet in casts, means that it's not an option. If I can't even drive, I sure as heck can't rehearse or perform.
Since I can't work on anything, I'm even less inclined to watch anything, because it's painful. So, I don't even see most of my friends' shows, which means that I'm missing out in all kinds of ways.
Maybe I'm not ready for a show yet. Ordinary human behavior is too difficult for me right now. People will be inconsiderate, annoying, self centered - you know, human - and it's just too much. I finally understand about "the straw that broke the camel's back." You just can't handle one more freaking thing. Any rudeness or nastiness or even just annoyingness pushes past the breaking point. And, you know and I know, life is FULL of rudeness and self centeredness.
I've always been very Greta Garbo, but I need to be alone even more now. It's exhausting to be with people. EXHAUSTING. Not depressing or unfulfilling, just so tiring.
It's not that I don't like you. Chances are, I do. I like people in general. I deeply love many people, personally. I just like them at a distance. Don't take it personally.
I'm perfectly OK with being flawed. (I mean, have you seen my housekeeping? Please.) But here's what I'm going to do, what will preserve my sanity and keep me from unleashing the dogs of war on random passers by, or people in my family who simply chose the wrong moment to be insensitive. Sometimes, I am not going to cope well. I'm just not.
I will burst into tears when the radio is on - some days, not at all, and some days, with virtually every song. And here's the thing - I'm going to stop being embarrassed or upset by it.
I don't want you to comfort me and tell me it'll be OK. I really, truly, don't. I don't want you to get manic in your efforts to cheer me up, trying to get me to laugh. It will just annoy me.
Most of the time, I am fine. Everything is great. Even things that hurt are small potatoes. I sit here in a climate controlled house that I own, eating every day, sleeping in a bed, showering - life is luxurious. I have family. I have friends. I love what I do, and I pretty much set my own hours.
And yet. Sometimes, life will shatter at a moment's notice. That's as normal and predictable as the sun rising. Sometimes, I will break.
Sometimes, I will also sleep too much or eat too much sugar. And you know what? I will not feel guilty.
And sometimes, I will regret having said all of this, because people still won't understand, and I'll feel exposed, and everyone will be awkward, and good grief, can I just live on a deserted island?
Sometimes, I just need quiet.
"And the sign said, the words of the prophets
Are written on the subway walls
And tenement halls
And whispered
In the sound of silence."
Showing posts with label grief. Show all posts
Showing posts with label grief. Show all posts
Saturday, July 26, 2014
Tuesday, August 27, 2013
I Want My Mommy
I had a dream with my mom in it recently. I knew that I hadn't seen her for a long time, but I couldn't remember why.
"Where have you been?" I said. "I've missed you!"
She laughed. "Right here," she replied. "Where else would I be?"
When she died ten months ago (not that I'm counting or anything), I thought that I was handling it well. I probably was - who knows? Anyway, I thought that would be as hard as it got.
She passed away just before the holidays, and I had it in my head that if we could just get through those first holidays, those first momentous firsts, we'd be OK. My family has been so amazing, I can't even express it.
Sometimes, what we need varies from person to person. The day after she passed away, my church had a holiday party planned. I knew that my husband and kids were looking forward to it, so I made sure that they went. I just could not handle the thought of all kinds of people extending condolences, so I stayed home. Everybody got what they needed.
I need alone time when I'm stressed or unhappy. I know that some people do not do well alone, and they will spend the time crying and sinking into depression. Not me; I look more like the housecleaning scene in Snow White. I become very efficient, metaphorically whistling while I work. I feel much better and more positive afterward.
I spent the first Mother's Day at home alone, too. My family went to church, but I knew that I just couldn't take it. I stayed home. There was no crying, no wallowing, no depression, but if I had had to expend the energy to deal with other people, on a day all about moms, it would have just crushed me.
I thought that I'd be feeling better as time went on. Isn't that what we hear? Time heals all wounds; misery fades. You learn a new normal.
Instead, I find that it becomes harder to be without my mom the more that time passes. I was so proud of myself in those first weeks. I'm finding that being without your mom for a few days or few weeks is easy. I'd done it before. I've been away from my mom on holidays, on trips, for sometimes months at a time when I lived hundreds of miles away from her.
It's becoming harder, because this is the longest I've ever been without my mom. Every day, it's a new record - the longest I've ever been away from my mom. There's no phone calls, no letters, no birthday cards. I actually feel like what I am - an orphan.
My children have lost all of their grandparents now. My oldest two have known all four of their grandparents and one great grandparent, so they've faced the loss of all of them. I've always told them what I truly believe - "They can see us any time they want. We just can't see them." The only grandparent that I ever knew, my grandma, died 5 days before my second child was born. She'd had Alzheimer's, so it was actually a positive thing. We'd been missing her for years already. Now, she wasn't miserable any more. She had been unaware when I got married and had my first child, but now I felt that I could share this birth with her, and she was happy for me.
I feel the same way about my parents and parents in law. I'm truly happy for my mom, who now gets to experience things like the birth of her two newest great grandkids. She'll be there when her oldest grandchild gets married this fall. One of her sons in law and one of her grandsons were recently hospitalized, and I am positive that she was right there. Now she gets to see her oldest great grandson's wrestling matches, and to look in on her daughter and granddaughter's classrooms. She couldn't do any of that during the last years of her life. She was in a lot of pain, and going anywhere was difficult. Now, pain and distance aren't a factor.
My kids never say, "I wish Grandma could see this," or "I wish Grandpa could be here," because we think that they do see, and they are there. They say things like, "I miss her," and, "I wish Grandpa could teach me how to shoot."
Selfishly, sometimes my thought process is all about me. I talk to my mom still, and sometimes I know exactly what she's probably saying back. Still, I can't see or hear her. I miss that. I miss her.
I think that this dream was a reminder of what I already know. Whether you believe that the memory of our loved ones is what makes them live beyond their own lifetime, or whether you're like me and believe that they are literally, sometimes physically, still here with us, in this dream my mother spoke the truth to me.
"I'm right here."
And "here" is wherever I am.
"Where have you been?" I said. "I've missed you!"
She laughed. "Right here," she replied. "Where else would I be?"
When she died ten months ago (not that I'm counting or anything), I thought that I was handling it well. I probably was - who knows? Anyway, I thought that would be as hard as it got.
She passed away just before the holidays, and I had it in my head that if we could just get through those first holidays, those first momentous firsts, we'd be OK. My family has been so amazing, I can't even express it.
Sometimes, what we need varies from person to person. The day after she passed away, my church had a holiday party planned. I knew that my husband and kids were looking forward to it, so I made sure that they went. I just could not handle the thought of all kinds of people extending condolences, so I stayed home. Everybody got what they needed.
I need alone time when I'm stressed or unhappy. I know that some people do not do well alone, and they will spend the time crying and sinking into depression. Not me; I look more like the housecleaning scene in Snow White. I become very efficient, metaphorically whistling while I work. I feel much better and more positive afterward.
I spent the first Mother's Day at home alone, too. My family went to church, but I knew that I just couldn't take it. I stayed home. There was no crying, no wallowing, no depression, but if I had had to expend the energy to deal with other people, on a day all about moms, it would have just crushed me.
I thought that I'd be feeling better as time went on. Isn't that what we hear? Time heals all wounds; misery fades. You learn a new normal.
Instead, I find that it becomes harder to be without my mom the more that time passes. I was so proud of myself in those first weeks. I'm finding that being without your mom for a few days or few weeks is easy. I'd done it before. I've been away from my mom on holidays, on trips, for sometimes months at a time when I lived hundreds of miles away from her.
It's becoming harder, because this is the longest I've ever been without my mom. Every day, it's a new record - the longest I've ever been away from my mom. There's no phone calls, no letters, no birthday cards. I actually feel like what I am - an orphan.
My children have lost all of their grandparents now. My oldest two have known all four of their grandparents and one great grandparent, so they've faced the loss of all of them. I've always told them what I truly believe - "They can see us any time they want. We just can't see them." The only grandparent that I ever knew, my grandma, died 5 days before my second child was born. She'd had Alzheimer's, so it was actually a positive thing. We'd been missing her for years already. Now, she wasn't miserable any more. She had been unaware when I got married and had my first child, but now I felt that I could share this birth with her, and she was happy for me.
I feel the same way about my parents and parents in law. I'm truly happy for my mom, who now gets to experience things like the birth of her two newest great grandkids. She'll be there when her oldest grandchild gets married this fall. One of her sons in law and one of her grandsons were recently hospitalized, and I am positive that she was right there. Now she gets to see her oldest great grandson's wrestling matches, and to look in on her daughter and granddaughter's classrooms. She couldn't do any of that during the last years of her life. She was in a lot of pain, and going anywhere was difficult. Now, pain and distance aren't a factor.
My kids never say, "I wish Grandma could see this," or "I wish Grandpa could be here," because we think that they do see, and they are there. They say things like, "I miss her," and, "I wish Grandpa could teach me how to shoot."
Selfishly, sometimes my thought process is all about me. I talk to my mom still, and sometimes I know exactly what she's probably saying back. Still, I can't see or hear her. I miss that. I miss her.
I think that this dream was a reminder of what I already know. Whether you believe that the memory of our loved ones is what makes them live beyond their own lifetime, or whether you're like me and believe that they are literally, sometimes physically, still here with us, in this dream my mother spoke the truth to me.
"I'm right here."
And "here" is wherever I am.
Wednesday, July 24, 2013
I Know How You Feel
My friend Linda once told me a story about learning to recognize the feeling of air on her skin again.
Linda was a teen when she got married. Her husband was older than she was - old enough that today, eyebrows would raise and judgments would be made. They were blissfully happy for approximately half a century; then he got sick. She rarely left his side during his final illness, and had no idea what to do after his death.
I met her after his death. She was 67, working and happy, but still feeling incomplete. She had, according to her own assessment, only been functional again for a year or so.
She was living with her daughter, and working in the garden. One summer day, she felt something that stopped her in her tracks. She stood in the vegetable bed, confused, unsure of whether she'd heard something, been touched, smelled smoke - all she knew was that it had reached out and grabbed her attention. Then it happened again. "It was the wind," she said, "the wind on my back, between my shoulder blades. I was wearing a tank top, and I'd been sweating, and I was feeling the wind across my skin. I realized that I had literally not felt anything for years."
I understood.
A couple of years earlier, I too had not been feeling much of anything. Well, that's not entirely accurate. Mentally, I felt both numb and like an exposed, raw nerve, all the time. Ordinary feelings and experiences were muted, like trying to pick up tiny beads while wearing thick gloves. It felt like they might be there, but I was never really sure. On the other hand, every experience felt like sandpaper over sunburned skin. Sometimes, something would cut through like a knife, with sharp, stabbing pain. Most of the chatter inside my head was single note screaming.
When I was pregnant with my youngest child, I had something truly terrible happen to me. It was one of those things that will forever divide your life into Before the Incident and After the Incident. I tend to be dismissive of people who see everyday irritation, inconvenience or disappointment as trauma, so I don't exaggerate ordinary hurts. I had already experienced Stuff That Will Turn Your Hair White in my life, but this threw me. It not only threw me, it trampled me underfoot.
I rarely reference The Event. Most people, even my friends and family, don't know that it happened. I have spoken about it with my husband, my clergyman, and the professional counselor that my husband (gently) insisted that I see. I will, very occasionally, reference the effect that it had, but the event itself is not open to discussion. Ever. This decision is not open to debate. Ever. I reference it here only to keep things in logical order; the effect had a cause.
Everybody has core needs - to be loved, to be understood, to be useful, for example. I need to feel safe. Almost everything in my life is geared toward making sure that I, and my loved ones, are safe. Naturally, anything that feels unsafe pushes my buttons. Experiencing something that made me feel profoundly unsafe in every way was a seismic event. Life crashed down around my ears, and the shock waves rumbled far into the distance. It was impossible for me to feel safe anywhere, while doing anything.
I had always believed that most people are inherently good, and that most people will do the right thing most of the time. I know, I know, it sounds staggeringly naive, but it was one of my bedrock beliefs. Losing that belief made me question everything I knew, or thought I knew. Unable to sort out whether people in general could be trusted, and how to make that determination, I chose the Fox Mulder route - trust no one.
It was beyond painful. Going out in public was awful. I'd look around at any group of people and think, if a disaster hit right now - fire, shooting, anything - all these people would happily trample or sacrifice me and my family to save themselves. I've always found large groups to be alienating, and this just made it worse.
Staying home felt safer than leaving it, but I found that I could no longer read, watch TV or listen to music. ("Well, that makes sense," my husband said. "Music is designed to evoke an emotional response, and you're fighting emotion right now.") Any outside input at all, no matter the source, was likely to rip open mental wounds that I was trying desperately to stitch closed. Even fluffy sitcoms would have references, or visuals, that brought up excruciatingly painful memories - or predictions, or philosophies, or a hundred other things.
Leaving home was like mountain climbing - I had to prepare, and it took great stamina to complete. More than once, grocery shopping reduced me to tears, and I had to flee the store. The first two times I tried to watch a movie were abject failures. Midway through, I dissolved into a puddle of pain and tears.
I stepped down as leader of my daughters' Girl Scout troops, and I stopped volunteering for community theater groups. I stopped taking photos; on holidays and birthdays I'd shove the camera into my husband's hands and say something like, "Make sure to get one with the cake in it." I continued attending church for two reasons: I couldn't tell my kids it was important if I didn't go, and if I entirely dropped out, church members would try to find out why, and I wasn't about to discuss it. Luckily, the pregnancy, and later, having a newborn, made excuses easy. "I'm just so tired" - which was true. "I'm spread a little too thin" - which was an understatement. "I need to be home with my family" - totally understandable. With four kids, it was easy to say to everyone, "Nope, sorry, I have no time to spare." It made sense. I've never been good about phone calls, but for a solid year I don't think I made a single one. Since it wasn't too out of character, it slid under people's radar, and that's how I wanted it.
Everyone needs something different when they're experiencing stress. Many people need reassurance, or consoling, or distracting. What I want most when I experience any kind of distress is for things to feel normal again, so what I want most from others is that they behave as if everything is normal. Giving me a hug, or saying, "I'm here for you" generally makes things worse. I am OK with an oblique reference as long as it's followed by completely normal behavior. Asking, "Are you OK?" is fine, as long as you will then accept my assurance that I am, or will be, and immediate move on.
As an example of what works best: I've spent most of my adult life being a stay at home mom and working for myself, taking photographs. Once, though, I worked for a small, local company part time. (It was actually part of my plan to force myself out of my home and into interaction with other humans. I met some pretty cool ones there.) One day, I got called into the boss's office, and left about 30 minutes later in tears. Not sniffling, but bawling.
My co-workers didn't know how to react. They had no idea what had happened. For all they knew, I'd just been caught stealing from the company, and the police were on their way. (Actually, it was a personal issue, and the boss reacted very well to what I had to say.) They were unsure of what to say or do, so they ignored me, which is exactly what I needed.
About an hour later, with my tissue box nearing empty and me feeling almost OK again, three or four co-workers were standing nearby discussing something. I've forgotten what. One of them may have said something about the break room being out of snacks, because what I felt compelled to say, in my best British accent, was, "And they ate Robin's minstrels. And there was much rejoicing."
Their heads all swiveled toward me, and they gave me the deer-in-the-headlights stare. One then managed to squeak, "What?" It was clear that they still didn't know what to say, or if they should speak to me at all. Plus, I hadn't so much as looked up for an hour.
I said, louder and very distinctly, "And they ate Robin's minstrels. And there was much rejoicing." They still looked slightly blank, so I said, "Oh, come on. Are none of you Monty Python fans?"
The ice broke. "Oh! Holy Grail! I love that movie!" More quotes were shared, people laughed, some of those in the neighboring desks joined in. Things were back to normal. I was happy, they were happy, and there was no need to ask if I was OK. Perfect.
My husband is more of a conventional human. When he is stressed, he wants to be surrounded by people who tell him that he's wonderful and loved, and that other people are jerks. He wants to have places to go, and things to do, that keep him from thinking too much. It makes no sense to him that I need the universe to collapse down to a space barely bigger than the inside of my head. He constantly tried to cheer me up by doing things that would cheer him up if he was down. Makes sense, right? I mean, the Golden Rule and all.
"Why don't you call So-and-so?" he'd say. "Go out to lunch." I tried to explain - the mere thought had me in tears of exhaustion. I had just enough energy to function, and none to spare. He also could not understand my insistence on avoiding mention of The Event. "Can't you just say that you're upset, and not say why?" he'd ask. NO. First, that's not how interaction works. Second, if I didn't want to discuss it, it was beyond rude to bring it up. Also, I cannot stand it when people say, "I don't want to talk about it" when what they mean is, "Please show me that you're interested. I'd love to tell you, but only if I'm sure of how you'll respond." It's manipulative twaddle. I would probably become violent if someone tried to cajole it out of me.
"Don't you think you'd feel better if you talked to your friends?" he wanted to know.
"No."
"Why not?"
"Because they'll tell me that they love me, and I'm wonderful, and it's not my fault, and it's not the end of the world, and millions of people have lived through it before, and I will too, and things will get better eventually, and I already know all of that. Why would I take the time and energy to go over something that I already know?" It just seemed like a huge waste of time and energy, and I had no energy to spare.
Even when I did talk to someone, I often seemed to baffle them. My counselor said during one visit, with genuine concern, "Do you ever think, 'Why me?'"
My response was immediate. "Never. I mean, people have had horrible things happen to them - people have been sent to concentration camps. Why would I think that I, personally, am immune to the human condition?" He stared at me for a moment, then scribbled madly in his notebook. Apparently that was not the expected response.
I don't understand people who think that nothing bad will ever happen to them. I mean, has that ever been the experience of a single person who's ever lived? Then why do you think it will be your experience?
(I also never understood people who'd say things like, "When my mother/father died, it just shook my faith to the core." I understand a tiny bit if your parent was murdered, or if they had a lingering illness, and you're not sure why people have to endure that, but the simple fact of their death? Shouldn't that be a given? If every person who ever lived has also died, chances are that everyone you know will die one day. How can that take you by surprise?
I lost my dad at 22, so I'd experienced losing a parent before most of my peers. "Wait until your mom dies," they'd say. My mom died only a few months ago, and I miss her more than I can say, but I knew that she'd leave one day. It was expected. My faith was unaffected.)
Gloom and doom people, the "everything bad always happens to me" people, also puzzle and annoy me. Usually, they're still walking, talking, sighted - the people with real hardships tend to be far more cheerful. There is no possible way that "everything bad always happens" to you, so don't even try to convince me that it does. Stuff happens, yeah - to you and to everybody else. It's always something. Great stuff happens to you, too, so pay attention to that. If you woke up today, be thankful.
Some days you're the bug, and some days you're the windshield. That's normal.
One friend of mine was around me enough during this time to notice that something was wrong, but she also knew me well enough to know that if I wanted to talk about it, I would, so she didn't ask any questions or try too hard to be helpful. I appreciated it. One day I said to her, "You know, if I was ever to start trusting people again, I think I'd start with your husband." He's a great guy, who also never tried too hard, but I knew he'd jump if I did ask for help.
She smiled. "Yeah. He's pretty great." It was a compliment, to both of them, and she accepted it. It was nice.
I remember the exact moment, and place, I had my Linda-and-the-wind experience.
There's a local park where we spend a lot of time. We photograph it, and people in it, in the spring when everything's blooming, and in the fall when the foliage changes color. We spend a lot of family nights there, walking the trails, having popsicles and looking for baby bunnies.
We were there on another family night, and my kids were playing nearby, watching another family fly kites. I looked over at a particular spot, and noticed immediately how I'd frame a photo. I wished I'd brought the camera. The thought stopped me cold - taking photos has been second nature since I was eight years old, but I hadn't actually thought about taking one for over two years.
I became excited, because I wanted to take a photo. Then I became even more excited, because, holy cow, I was excited! That was new and different and unexpected!
We came back a few days later with the camera. The photos aren't amazing because of their content, which is nice but ordinary, but they are deeply amazing because I took them, on my own, just because I wanted to. Such a little thing, and so monumental.
When Linda told me her story about the wind, I nodded enthusiastically. "I know how that feels!" I told her - and I did.
Sometimes that may be why things happen to you - so that some day, you can look another person in the eye and say, "I know how you feel" - and you will know.
Such a little thing, and so monumental.
Linda was a teen when she got married. Her husband was older than she was - old enough that today, eyebrows would raise and judgments would be made. They were blissfully happy for approximately half a century; then he got sick. She rarely left his side during his final illness, and had no idea what to do after his death.
I met her after his death. She was 67, working and happy, but still feeling incomplete. She had, according to her own assessment, only been functional again for a year or so.
She was living with her daughter, and working in the garden. One summer day, she felt something that stopped her in her tracks. She stood in the vegetable bed, confused, unsure of whether she'd heard something, been touched, smelled smoke - all she knew was that it had reached out and grabbed her attention. Then it happened again. "It was the wind," she said, "the wind on my back, between my shoulder blades. I was wearing a tank top, and I'd been sweating, and I was feeling the wind across my skin. I realized that I had literally not felt anything for years."
I understood.
A couple of years earlier, I too had not been feeling much of anything. Well, that's not entirely accurate. Mentally, I felt both numb and like an exposed, raw nerve, all the time. Ordinary feelings and experiences were muted, like trying to pick up tiny beads while wearing thick gloves. It felt like they might be there, but I was never really sure. On the other hand, every experience felt like sandpaper over sunburned skin. Sometimes, something would cut through like a knife, with sharp, stabbing pain. Most of the chatter inside my head was single note screaming.
When I was pregnant with my youngest child, I had something truly terrible happen to me. It was one of those things that will forever divide your life into Before the Incident and After the Incident. I tend to be dismissive of people who see everyday irritation, inconvenience or disappointment as trauma, so I don't exaggerate ordinary hurts. I had already experienced Stuff That Will Turn Your Hair White in my life, but this threw me. It not only threw me, it trampled me underfoot.
I rarely reference The Event. Most people, even my friends and family, don't know that it happened. I have spoken about it with my husband, my clergyman, and the professional counselor that my husband (gently) insisted that I see. I will, very occasionally, reference the effect that it had, but the event itself is not open to discussion. Ever. This decision is not open to debate. Ever. I reference it here only to keep things in logical order; the effect had a cause.
Everybody has core needs - to be loved, to be understood, to be useful, for example. I need to feel safe. Almost everything in my life is geared toward making sure that I, and my loved ones, are safe. Naturally, anything that feels unsafe pushes my buttons. Experiencing something that made me feel profoundly unsafe in every way was a seismic event. Life crashed down around my ears, and the shock waves rumbled far into the distance. It was impossible for me to feel safe anywhere, while doing anything.
I had always believed that most people are inherently good, and that most people will do the right thing most of the time. I know, I know, it sounds staggeringly naive, but it was one of my bedrock beliefs. Losing that belief made me question everything I knew, or thought I knew. Unable to sort out whether people in general could be trusted, and how to make that determination, I chose the Fox Mulder route - trust no one.
It was beyond painful. Going out in public was awful. I'd look around at any group of people and think, if a disaster hit right now - fire, shooting, anything - all these people would happily trample or sacrifice me and my family to save themselves. I've always found large groups to be alienating, and this just made it worse.
Staying home felt safer than leaving it, but I found that I could no longer read, watch TV or listen to music. ("Well, that makes sense," my husband said. "Music is designed to evoke an emotional response, and you're fighting emotion right now.") Any outside input at all, no matter the source, was likely to rip open mental wounds that I was trying desperately to stitch closed. Even fluffy sitcoms would have references, or visuals, that brought up excruciatingly painful memories - or predictions, or philosophies, or a hundred other things.
Leaving home was like mountain climbing - I had to prepare, and it took great stamina to complete. More than once, grocery shopping reduced me to tears, and I had to flee the store. The first two times I tried to watch a movie were abject failures. Midway through, I dissolved into a puddle of pain and tears.
I stepped down as leader of my daughters' Girl Scout troops, and I stopped volunteering for community theater groups. I stopped taking photos; on holidays and birthdays I'd shove the camera into my husband's hands and say something like, "Make sure to get one with the cake in it." I continued attending church for two reasons: I couldn't tell my kids it was important if I didn't go, and if I entirely dropped out, church members would try to find out why, and I wasn't about to discuss it. Luckily, the pregnancy, and later, having a newborn, made excuses easy. "I'm just so tired" - which was true. "I'm spread a little too thin" - which was an understatement. "I need to be home with my family" - totally understandable. With four kids, it was easy to say to everyone, "Nope, sorry, I have no time to spare." It made sense. I've never been good about phone calls, but for a solid year I don't think I made a single one. Since it wasn't too out of character, it slid under people's radar, and that's how I wanted it.
Everyone needs something different when they're experiencing stress. Many people need reassurance, or consoling, or distracting. What I want most when I experience any kind of distress is for things to feel normal again, so what I want most from others is that they behave as if everything is normal. Giving me a hug, or saying, "I'm here for you" generally makes things worse. I am OK with an oblique reference as long as it's followed by completely normal behavior. Asking, "Are you OK?" is fine, as long as you will then accept my assurance that I am, or will be, and immediate move on.
As an example of what works best: I've spent most of my adult life being a stay at home mom and working for myself, taking photographs. Once, though, I worked for a small, local company part time. (It was actually part of my plan to force myself out of my home and into interaction with other humans. I met some pretty cool ones there.) One day, I got called into the boss's office, and left about 30 minutes later in tears. Not sniffling, but bawling.
My co-workers didn't know how to react. They had no idea what had happened. For all they knew, I'd just been caught stealing from the company, and the police were on their way. (Actually, it was a personal issue, and the boss reacted very well to what I had to say.) They were unsure of what to say or do, so they ignored me, which is exactly what I needed.
About an hour later, with my tissue box nearing empty and me feeling almost OK again, three or four co-workers were standing nearby discussing something. I've forgotten what. One of them may have said something about the break room being out of snacks, because what I felt compelled to say, in my best British accent, was, "And they ate Robin's minstrels. And there was much rejoicing."
Their heads all swiveled toward me, and they gave me the deer-in-the-headlights stare. One then managed to squeak, "What?" It was clear that they still didn't know what to say, or if they should speak to me at all. Plus, I hadn't so much as looked up for an hour.
I said, louder and very distinctly, "And they ate Robin's minstrels. And there was much rejoicing." They still looked slightly blank, so I said, "Oh, come on. Are none of you Monty Python fans?"
The ice broke. "Oh! Holy Grail! I love that movie!" More quotes were shared, people laughed, some of those in the neighboring desks joined in. Things were back to normal. I was happy, they were happy, and there was no need to ask if I was OK. Perfect.
My husband is more of a conventional human. When he is stressed, he wants to be surrounded by people who tell him that he's wonderful and loved, and that other people are jerks. He wants to have places to go, and things to do, that keep him from thinking too much. It makes no sense to him that I need the universe to collapse down to a space barely bigger than the inside of my head. He constantly tried to cheer me up by doing things that would cheer him up if he was down. Makes sense, right? I mean, the Golden Rule and all.
"Why don't you call So-and-so?" he'd say. "Go out to lunch." I tried to explain - the mere thought had me in tears of exhaustion. I had just enough energy to function, and none to spare. He also could not understand my insistence on avoiding mention of The Event. "Can't you just say that you're upset, and not say why?" he'd ask. NO. First, that's not how interaction works. Second, if I didn't want to discuss it, it was beyond rude to bring it up. Also, I cannot stand it when people say, "I don't want to talk about it" when what they mean is, "Please show me that you're interested. I'd love to tell you, but only if I'm sure of how you'll respond." It's manipulative twaddle. I would probably become violent if someone tried to cajole it out of me.
"Don't you think you'd feel better if you talked to your friends?" he wanted to know.
"No."
"Why not?"
"Because they'll tell me that they love me, and I'm wonderful, and it's not my fault, and it's not the end of the world, and millions of people have lived through it before, and I will too, and things will get better eventually, and I already know all of that. Why would I take the time and energy to go over something that I already know?" It just seemed like a huge waste of time and energy, and I had no energy to spare.
Even when I did talk to someone, I often seemed to baffle them. My counselor said during one visit, with genuine concern, "Do you ever think, 'Why me?'"
My response was immediate. "Never. I mean, people have had horrible things happen to them - people have been sent to concentration camps. Why would I think that I, personally, am immune to the human condition?" He stared at me for a moment, then scribbled madly in his notebook. Apparently that was not the expected response.
I don't understand people who think that nothing bad will ever happen to them. I mean, has that ever been the experience of a single person who's ever lived? Then why do you think it will be your experience?
(I also never understood people who'd say things like, "When my mother/father died, it just shook my faith to the core." I understand a tiny bit if your parent was murdered, or if they had a lingering illness, and you're not sure why people have to endure that, but the simple fact of their death? Shouldn't that be a given? If every person who ever lived has also died, chances are that everyone you know will die one day. How can that take you by surprise?
I lost my dad at 22, so I'd experienced losing a parent before most of my peers. "Wait until your mom dies," they'd say. My mom died only a few months ago, and I miss her more than I can say, but I knew that she'd leave one day. It was expected. My faith was unaffected.)
Gloom and doom people, the "everything bad always happens to me" people, also puzzle and annoy me. Usually, they're still walking, talking, sighted - the people with real hardships tend to be far more cheerful. There is no possible way that "everything bad always happens" to you, so don't even try to convince me that it does. Stuff happens, yeah - to you and to everybody else. It's always something. Great stuff happens to you, too, so pay attention to that. If you woke up today, be thankful.
Some days you're the bug, and some days you're the windshield. That's normal.
One friend of mine was around me enough during this time to notice that something was wrong, but she also knew me well enough to know that if I wanted to talk about it, I would, so she didn't ask any questions or try too hard to be helpful. I appreciated it. One day I said to her, "You know, if I was ever to start trusting people again, I think I'd start with your husband." He's a great guy, who also never tried too hard, but I knew he'd jump if I did ask for help.
She smiled. "Yeah. He's pretty great." It was a compliment, to both of them, and she accepted it. It was nice.
I remember the exact moment, and place, I had my Linda-and-the-wind experience.
There's a local park where we spend a lot of time. We photograph it, and people in it, in the spring when everything's blooming, and in the fall when the foliage changes color. We spend a lot of family nights there, walking the trails, having popsicles and looking for baby bunnies.
We were there on another family night, and my kids were playing nearby, watching another family fly kites. I looked over at a particular spot, and noticed immediately how I'd frame a photo. I wished I'd brought the camera. The thought stopped me cold - taking photos has been second nature since I was eight years old, but I hadn't actually thought about taking one for over two years.
I became excited, because I wanted to take a photo. Then I became even more excited, because, holy cow, I was excited! That was new and different and unexpected!
We came back a few days later with the camera. The photos aren't amazing because of their content, which is nice but ordinary, but they are deeply amazing because I took them, on my own, just because I wanted to. Such a little thing, and so monumental.
When Linda told me her story about the wind, I nodded enthusiastically. "I know how that feels!" I told her - and I did.
Sometimes that may be why things happen to you - so that some day, you can look another person in the eye and say, "I know how you feel" - and you will know.
Such a little thing, and so monumental.
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