Hi,
Sunday night. A full moon. A bitter cold streak of single digit weather in the last week. A headache that seems determined to stick around and the pain, back. I knew it would be back but enjoyed the reprieve that the work week seems to bring. Business. A mind able to stay on other things when its told to. Work that matters to me. Engaging people who deserve my attention and assistance. I am grateful for all of these things. Grateful for them like a drowning person is for a life boat. I know these people, this work, these distractions are my survival. My rescue team.
When I say that my pain came back--make no mistake--it was never really gone but it seems to have subsided or shifted into a shape that I could manage. I felt sort of vaguely in control of it. Then it was Sunday, today. I dont know what happened to me. I was ok, moving thru my day and then I was struck down with...loss. A song on a cd someone I used to know well made me. A Bruce Springsteen song I think aptly titled "You're Missing"--and I am transported to emptying my Dad's closet, going thru his stuff, laying in his closet on the floor the night before his service because the clothes smelled like him. I am there and I cannot move from there. I am there while I am in the car, riding along, my kids are talking, husband is saying something, the radio is on, the sun is out and...I am not here at all it seems at these times. At these times I am still on the closet floor, unable to really move, just wanting to stay there where I think maybe I can feel him or smell him or maybe I can just pretend this was all a bad dream and I'll wake up and it will be ok. I will have been in a coma or accident and dreamt it all. I have thought that. I have wished that.
And so I cry. I cry for my pain, for his, for both of us. For Mental Illness, for depression, for the pain we cause ourselves and each other when we can't connect and stay alone. I cry and then I stop. I get up. I make Valentine's with my kids. I put pink glitter on everything and feathers and more glitter. I think of making a Valentine for my Dad. I think of how he used to always buy me carnations when I was little, pink for Valentine's Day and then green for St Pattys Day. I think about how I depended on that, could count on it, usually. I think of the complexity of my Dad. How he valued his family but couldnt really let us in and how he was proud, and would not ask for help, and then how he did and wouldnt accept it. I think too much.
I call my Mom. I say nothing or something but not really this. I could be saying anything it is just words coming out and filling up space. I dont say, help me, I cant breathe, I miss my Dad. I am scared I will lose you too, or lose my husband, or lose my kids or my sister or my anyone. I dont say that. I say I'm ok. Things are ok. I dont know why but I cant say the truth outloud. I am an epic liar during these points. I think of my Dad, alone is his house, sad, depressed...I'm ok hon, thanks for calling.
My Mom tells me she found something I wrote about my Dad from 1990, calling him my hero but writing about his depression. I was 17 then. We talk a little about how long this has really been going on. A strange phenomena seemed to have occured after his death where I wanted to say his illness was really stable until the end but my writing contradicts this. How much I want to rewrite our history to make it cleaner and easier. For both of us, I want this. His BiPolar and my desire to heal him it seems started much before 2012. My life and identity growing around and out of his like a vine. My pain over not knowing how to fix it found its home in a bottle. His pain, sadly, ongoing.
Full moon. Pink glitter on the floor, on my sweater, in my hair. Waiting for a pink carnation that wont come this year. xxK
Sunday night. A full moon. A bitter cold streak of single digit weather in the last week. A headache that seems determined to stick around and the pain, back. I knew it would be back but enjoyed the reprieve that the work week seems to bring. Business. A mind able to stay on other things when its told to. Work that matters to me. Engaging people who deserve my attention and assistance. I am grateful for all of these things. Grateful for them like a drowning person is for a life boat. I know these people, this work, these distractions are my survival. My rescue team.
When I say that my pain came back--make no mistake--it was never really gone but it seems to have subsided or shifted into a shape that I could manage. I felt sort of vaguely in control of it. Then it was Sunday, today. I dont know what happened to me. I was ok, moving thru my day and then I was struck down with...loss. A song on a cd someone I used to know well made me. A Bruce Springsteen song I think aptly titled "You're Missing"--and I am transported to emptying my Dad's closet, going thru his stuff, laying in his closet on the floor the night before his service because the clothes smelled like him. I am there and I cannot move from there. I am there while I am in the car, riding along, my kids are talking, husband is saying something, the radio is on, the sun is out and...I am not here at all it seems at these times. At these times I am still on the closet floor, unable to really move, just wanting to stay there where I think maybe I can feel him or smell him or maybe I can just pretend this was all a bad dream and I'll wake up and it will be ok. I will have been in a coma or accident and dreamt it all. I have thought that. I have wished that.
And so I cry. I cry for my pain, for his, for both of us. For Mental Illness, for depression, for the pain we cause ourselves and each other when we can't connect and stay alone. I cry and then I stop. I get up. I make Valentine's with my kids. I put pink glitter on everything and feathers and more glitter. I think of making a Valentine for my Dad. I think of how he used to always buy me carnations when I was little, pink for Valentine's Day and then green for St Pattys Day. I think about how I depended on that, could count on it, usually. I think of the complexity of my Dad. How he valued his family but couldnt really let us in and how he was proud, and would not ask for help, and then how he did and wouldnt accept it. I think too much.
I call my Mom. I say nothing or something but not really this. I could be saying anything it is just words coming out and filling up space. I dont say, help me, I cant breathe, I miss my Dad. I am scared I will lose you too, or lose my husband, or lose my kids or my sister or my anyone. I dont say that. I say I'm ok. Things are ok. I dont know why but I cant say the truth outloud. I am an epic liar during these points. I think of my Dad, alone is his house, sad, depressed...I'm ok hon, thanks for calling.
My Mom tells me she found something I wrote about my Dad from 1990, calling him my hero but writing about his depression. I was 17 then. We talk a little about how long this has really been going on. A strange phenomena seemed to have occured after his death where I wanted to say his illness was really stable until the end but my writing contradicts this. How much I want to rewrite our history to make it cleaner and easier. For both of us, I want this. His BiPolar and my desire to heal him it seems started much before 2012. My life and identity growing around and out of his like a vine. My pain over not knowing how to fix it found its home in a bottle. His pain, sadly, ongoing.
Full moon. Pink glitter on the floor, on my sweater, in my hair. Waiting for a pink carnation that wont come this year. xxK
No comments:
Post a Comment