Day 91: Newton's Cradle

May 30, 2014

Happy-makings of today include:

-meeting a friend for coffee before work
-the ridiculousness of my dog after being shaved for the summer: spotted skin, lion's tail, floppy ears, softball sized skull, impressive mustache, squirrel paws, scent of baby powder
-hearing a cuckoo bird outside of my apartment and thinking of Gareth
-kind words from several friends online- a missing of me, a validation of continued sobbing, and encouragement to keep writing
-an offer of homemade chicken soup
-a photo of a friend's adorable dog posted and a comment that always makes me laugh
-that gal-danged dog magnet set sent to me by a friend a couple of days ago...still funny
-connecting with my sister, my mom, and a friend from middle/high school, all with laughs included

I remarked to my friend last night that it feels like I have a split personality. Although instead of being one personality while the other sleeps, I am acutely aware of being both in every moment.

There's the person who recognizes the enjoyment of the things I listed above.  She smiled when she heard the cuckoo bird. I mean to say the corners of her mouth actually moved up a bit on each side, in a real smile. She laughed on the phone with her mom. I mean to say genuine laughing sounds came from her belly. Her teeth showed while she laughed. She saw the groomer place her dog on the marbled floor and watched as her dog's paws ran in place for several moments before picking up traction and clicking their way towards her and she laughed. She knows how to laugh. She hasn't forgotten.

While she's laughing, though, there's the other person who is still sitting in the chair. The one who can't will herself to smile or hold her arms out for her dog. The one who feels nothing at all but the absolute desire to not be here. To not exist. She is uninterested- no, incapable- of having any kind of small talk with the groomer. "Here," she wants to say, "keep my dog. I don't care. I have to go lie down now."  She walks in tar. She wants to collapse. She is in shock. She is bereaved. She is done. She is done. She is done.

There is a fine balancing point between the two. "You look great!" my doctor said to me the other day. "You look happy." I was tipped just slightly over to the first person. The one capable of feeling happy. How would she know that 20 minutes later I'd be having a hard time catching my breath between sobbing? Tip went the scale in the other direction.

"I'm worried about you. I'm worried you might do something stupid." Of course. I had been inconsolable in my office, head on my desk, saying "I don't think I can do this anymore. I really don't know how much longer I can do this." How could it be known that an hour later the scales would tip, just enough, just a tiny bit to the other side, so that I was able to walk my dog and have a feeling of peace sweep over me. I was able to stop and talk to another dog owner and genuinely show interest. I was tired, but I felt like I was going to be ok.

This pendulum makes wide, sweeping motions at times, making it appear as I hang on to it that I will stay on one side or the other indefinitely. It's hard to remember it will swing back. Other times it is active. More like a game of crack-the-whip and a moment of despair is countered quickly by rest and then laughter, or a moment of laughter dies and is arrested by sudden sobbing.

It's exhausting.

My science teacher had one of these on her desk. And I remember bringing one of the balls up and letting it go- watching the energy transfer back and forth, back and forth. Click. Click. Click. Click. The harder the initial impact, the longer the duration of movement. Click. Click. Click. But eventually, if you're patient enough to watch it all, click click, they will slow down, click. And stop.

And this is what I imagine when I am dashed back and forth between brief moments of joy and long moments of anguish. The balance may not be exact, but the moving from one to the other does happen, and I'm told (and I believe, at least I want to believe), that in time it will shift to where there is more joy than despair.

This is good news.

Because, seriously. I mean honestly. I can't believe as human beings we are designed to withstand the type of discomfort I'm experiencing. And I can try to minimize it by imagining the discomfort of people with "real tragedies" or "real losses"- measuring my loss against theirs and telling myself I know nothing of actual grief. But the fact of the matter is I am drowning here. I am under the heaviest of weights I can imagine and there are moments when I feel like I may suffocate.

Then I go back a few days or weeks and find a piece of writing I did where the grief rested and the joy sprang to life, even if it was just long enough for me to write a small piece and hit "post." Joy is there. It is not gone just because I can't feel it in the moment. It is still and waiting as the energy passes through and propels me out to the side, free floating, stomach dropping- but knowing I will again make contact. I will lift myself from the ground. I will spring up. I will hold my arms out and I will experience joy.