After I commented that things in New Zealand sounded cuter than things in America ("trash can" is a "wheelie bin," "cooler" is a "chilly bin," etc.) someone (not naming names, Gareth Lochhead) told me that his country was protected by a band of cute birds, the "kakapolice."
April 8, 2014
Did I already post this? Because...wow. Hadong love.
April 8, 2014
Riding the waves, day 39.
I'd be lying if I didn't say I was tired. Tired of this. The waves. The grief. Perhaps you're tired of the updates. Perhaps you're wondering when things will shift back to normal. I am, too.
The truth is I'm having longer periods of normalcy than I was a month ago. Enjoying a walk in the park with my friend. Dancing around the classroom and genuinely feeling happy to be teaching, instead of just trying to hold it together for 50 minutes. Stretching my legs out and tilting my head back towards the sun on a swing. Watching pinkish petals fall from a tree and swirl around my feet. This feels good. This feels normal.
Other times I'm swiftly snatched up from a normal moment and thrown heart-first into an unimaginable storm. While taking a deep breath in a yoga class. Sitting in my car after paying a bill at the ATM. In the middle of my last bite of donkkaseu with friends. I never see it coming, and the periods of normal trick me into thinking I'm past the intensity these waves can have.
Today I had a great day. Memories brought joy instead of deep grief and I felt connected to what I was doing throughout the day. Two classes. One office hour. Two clinic hours. I was present to the conversations I was having more often than not. I wasn't doing what I've been accustomed to, which is giving myself silent instructions on what a non-grieving person should do in a conversation: "Ok. Nod your head now. Say, "uh-huh." Ask a follow up question. Try to laugh. Raise your eyebrows. Look animated." So much of it is acting my way into social norms. It's necessary. Otherwise I'd be under my desk at work, and that's just not the way to make friends.
After all work things were done I sat in the office for a bit, marveling at the fact that I actually had a goal (make a review sheet) and accomplished it in a timely manner. I was feeling pretty good and was thinking about leaving at a reasonable time and going for a run. Then came a new kind of wave.
This one didn't start in my gut and travel up to my chest, making breathing difficult- holding the breath, really, until the massive sobbing starts. This one was different. It felt like someone turned the off switch and legs and arms got heavy. I sat there for God knows how long and then moved the whole party to my car, where I sat for another 40 minutes or so. My thoughts weren't pleasant, but I knew why I was having them and I was kind of relieved that I wasn't going through the exhausting process of crying and teeth chattering and spinning until the wave passed. This was calmer.
In all honesty, it took me 2 hours to get from my school 4 miles away to the front door of my apartment. True, I stopped off to pay a bill and I bought some groceries. But the bulk of that time was dancing around immobilization. Sitting in the seat of my parked car. Feeling the car heat up and sweat start to form on my stomach. Standing in front of the dairy section of the grocery store. Staring at the same carton of milk for a ridiculously long time. This is what I did.
I want to write about the Korea I love and the things I see and do here. I want to only post pictures of stunning Hadong and hilarious English. I want to describe beautiful runs along the river and interactions with locals that leave my spirit feeling full. I want to be funny. I want to make you laugh. And I can keep saying this will happen in due time, and it will. And I can keep focusing on the fact that it's getting better, and it is.
But if it's truthful documentation I'm seeking to share, if it's an honest look at what this is like, I must write about the shutting down. The long minutes in the car. The catching of myself at the ATM saying out loud, "Ok- game over. I'm done. Let's just get this thing over with. This life thing. Do you hear me? I'm done!"
And I must also write that day 39 is the first day without tears. Not that it's a thing to celebrate- but to notice that what felt like an impossibility is possible. Which means the day is coming where I pull up in my car to where I need to be and I get out, without even thinking about it. That I feel tired and take a nap because my day was full, not because at that point in the day I don't feel like I can do anything else. That the walks and the swings and the teaching and the watching of petals brings an amount of joy that collects and builds throughout the day and leaves me at night putting my head on my pillow and smiling. This is possible. I know this now.
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