The Tricky Thing

6 March, 2015

Here's the tricky thing:

I'm doing ok. Fine, really. More than fine.
And then I'm not.
I could use a little encouragement here.
No, not from you, my living ones.
I want to hear it from him.
And I can't.

And this, in my opinion, is ridiculous.

Sure, the signs are there,
and I have an abundance of love.
So, what does that make me-
not grateful? There's nothing worse,
in my opinion.

Last night I had a dream I made
love to a man. In the dream I hadn't
particularly wanted to, but I remember
thinking I should "get it over with"-
this physical act with a man who was
not Gareth. There was going to have
to be a first one after. After Gareth.
There was going to have to be a
someone after.

What a pity to be this someone.

He was a scrawny man in a dimly lit
hostel- on a twin bed tucked inside
of a small shop, really. A shop
that sold crystals and earrings
and had in the corner a bed wrapped
in a crisp white sheet for massages.
This was not the bed we used. Ours
(or "his" really, there was no "ours"-
there was no "us") was a twin cot
in the opposite corner.

The shop was closed for the evening.
Perhaps it was a shop by day,
hostel by night. Perhaps it was just
doing what places do in dreams:
morphing between ideas. Changing
without causing too much alarm to the
dream participants. I was not alarmed.

I was not attracted to him, this man.
I felt nothing for him. He was harmless
enough. He meant no harm.
Maybe he had a dead love-person, too.
It's hard to know. We didn't connect
over sadness. Or passion. Or emptiness.
Nothing was there to join us together-
"us" a word reserved for another time,
with another person. I felt nothing.

There was no connection. It just was.

His hair was long and in tangles. He
lacked any discernable scent. He may
or not have had a spattering of facial
hair. His arm muscles were taught and
he did not possess any of the softness
of the body I knew and longed to be with.
There was no belly. There was no vastness.

When my childhood friend Heather
walked in the room and found us there,
I was slightly ashamed. I covered myself
and explained that this- this did not mean
anything."No offense," I said to the man,
and he nodded. "I'm just getting it over
with." We all understood.
I was not defensive. I felt nothing.

How empty.

Here's the tricky thing:

Last Wednesday was the year
anniversary of Gareth's death.

The air had a holiday feeling,
like Christmas or Thanksgiving.
I was shrouded in gratitude, and
if not happiness, certainly contentment.
Everything seemed clear, including
this loss. I celebrated with his
family via short text messages
and long video clips. It was a
good day.

Here's the tricky thing:

Last night I wasn't sure how
I can continue under the weight
of this. This morning I wasn't
sure I could get out of bed.

Things are better. I am happier.
I go days and even the better part
of weeks without crying. I really,
truly, see the bigger picture, and
I am through the worst of it.

I can do it, and I am doing it.
And then I can't.

Here's the tricky thing:

I lost a family member in the
casualty of grief. I am not met
at the airport. I am not hugged
goodbye when I again leave.
I am avoided and I am resented.
I am an unwanted presence.
I am selfish. I brought this on.
I want to be angry and hurt,
but I haven't the energy for it.
I can't repair when I'm in disrepair.
Under the hurt is hurt. I'm too
tired to unravel it. To right the
furniture. To hold out the olive
branch. I lost and lost again.

Here's the tricky thing:

In year 2 the grief goes underground.
The shades get pulled down on it.
The dark clothes go to the
back of the closet. All of the
frozen lasagnes have been eaten.

In year 2 when you "just can't,"
you're lazy, instead of grieving.
You're selfish instead of heartbroken.
You're holding onto it instead of
in the throws of it. You're stuck
instead of but-of-course, didn't-you-
hear?, she-just-lost-someone-close-
to-her. In year 2, things are different.

It takes a serious gumption to
step up and admit that it's still hard
when the grass has long grown over
the once-fresh grave. It takes balls
to say that, yes, things get immeasurably
better and days are full of joy, and
then it comes back- the heaviness.
The feeling like it's a bit too much.

And the tricky thing is that
I'm not sure I have either.