I’ve had laryngitis for 3 wks today so I’ve got some shit to say because it’s been pent up and I haven’t seen my therapist since before vacation because when I returned, I had no voice at the time of my scheduled appts. Needless to say, I’m all kinds of overwhelmed right now because I feel trapped. It takes too much energy to communicate anything meaningful like this and so I’ve spent 3 weeks on the surface with everyone and I just can’t hang there. I can’t.
“I must be a mermaid Rango, for I have no fear of the depths and a great fear of shallow living” —Anais Nin
I’m crawling out of my skin.
I have no idea what I’m doing with my life. Literally no fucking clue. I have a home and a husband and a career, so maybe I shouldnt be looking but the Isaac sized hole in me seems to be growing, not shrinking, with the passage of time. Lately I cannot stop thinking about never seeing him after he died and while I’m so grateful for the fierce protection by my husband and the EMT’s and police, I also wonder why no one even asked me if I wanted to see him one last time. The choice was made for me, and I get why—I really do—but I’m also haunted by it. I’m haunted by the feeling that he could think I abandoned him by never saying goodbye. Im haunted by never saying goodbye to my beautiful boy, my one and only forever and ever child, I’m haunted by the wild imaginings I conjure of what must have happened to him if no one would let me see him and I’m haunted by such an unexpected and unbelievable end to my sweet child.
Friday night I hit a deer with my car. It was a brutal moment that my mind cannot let go of. Also, now, not only am I voiceless, but I can’t drive anywhere for awhile, which makes the walls feel increasingly encroaching.
I’ve definitely seen the pattern emerging here and I feel strongly that it’s all surrounding choices I need to make to heed the call of my spirit, which calls and calls my name, over and over again, ignoring what I’ve suffered, and demanding that I rise.
Recently, for fun, I had my tarot cards read by a complete stranger with no previous information on me and none given by me, before during or after. What she said made both of us cry and it also wasn’t the first time I’ve heard these words spoken to/about me.
As much as things have altered irrevocably, so too have they remained unchanged— I still find myself squandering precious time ignoring the drum beat of my heart, trying to keep up with someone else’s rhythm, someone else’s song. What more could be taken from me to shake me out of this? What am I waiting for?
There is a tightness in my chest that I feel when I dismiss myself— my voice my needs my emotions. I’ve had it as far back as I can remember, as a very young child, though I didn’t always know what it was or what caused it. Now my whole body says “me too”. And yeah, I mean THAT #metoo and I also just mean Me The Fuck Too.
There’s so much in this one life that I can’t get out because I’m afraid. I’m afraid if I start I will never stop. I’m afraid of what will remain when I’m finished. I feel like a stranger to myself and everyone else because I am only living a fraction of the whole. I shut it down so long ago— I dont even remember the way back.
There’s this thing I’ve caught myself doing lately. I will look at the large senior portrait of Isaac in our living room and then quickly avert my eyes from his. I look sideways in both directions. I stifle the intolerability of it. I take a great big inhale so I can stuff it in deep— even as I KNOW this is not helping me I keep doing it. My neck feels tight my chest burns. I do not exhale again until I realize I’m holding my breath. I find a distraction. Or I leave the house. Or I will go a few days without going into the living room or I go in yet I can’t look. But I can’t take it down because that— the idea of that— hurts more.
And then…..and then… today I drove my sisters white car through the white snow past a grove of white birches and I saw a white snowy owl and something clicked. It occurred to me that every death— every single one, is somebody’s child. This nameless title, it is not so rare after all. Every death is child loss for someone (as long as they are alive). There is so much woundedness in the world. It is so heavy. But there’s something about this knowing that bolsters me. I think we (I?) feel better when we (I?) aren’t alone. Misery doesn’t love company— when I am in misery all I want is to isolate. But the aching of this begs for relief, begs for someone to see me, someone to carry this with me. And that feels like a sign of growth. Or hope. Or both. I want to live. I want to grow. I want to live bigger and better than I’ve ever wanted for myself and I finally realized it’s because I want to do it FOR Isaac. My purposeless feeling? That Isaac sized hole? I cannot fill it playing small— the only thing I can do with this is to live enough for both of us— to live as though this is all there is, because it’s true. To get up when I feel so heavy with grief, to move and honor and celebrate this fugitive physical life— outrunning fear and death for as long as I’m allowed. THATS BEEN THE THING ALL ALONG, hiding inside this blog, stifled by my breath, incubated by my spirit. Suddenly it feels like a child leading me saying “look mama” and “watch this mama”, and I just have to let it be this way— this is how I solve the riddle. Not by figuring out WHY Isaac died— but rather, figuring out HOW I’m going to live, despite the loss of him and who I was when he was here— and how to take both of those beautiful spirits with me, and feel it all, and breathe deeply in and out anyway.