Day 204: Invite Me In

I'm continuing to participate in a 30-day grief writing workshop. Today's prompt asks us to consider how, as a grieving person, we are seen by those around us. This came out:

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How do you see me?

Am I the strong one?

The one you admire?

I wish I had an ounce

of your strength, you say.

Or maybe I'm the emotional one.

The one you avoid.

Shouldn’t she be over

this already? you say.

What do you see when you see me?

Perhaps I'm the lonely one.

The one you pity. If I

ever lost my love, I don’t

know what I’d do, you say.

Do you see me as the selfish one?

The one you hate? She’s

not going to talk about

him again, is she? you say.

Perhaps it's the dramatic one.

The one you roll eyes at.

She should keep that stuff

private, instead of putting

it all out there, you say.

Or maybe I am the sensitive one.

The one that baffles you.
It’s not like she lost a

husband or a child, you say.

When you look at me, what do you see?

You may think you see the brave one.

The one you can’t imagine

being. I thought for sure

she’d quit her job and move

back home for good, you say.

Who am I to you?

Am I the negative one?

The one who is stuck in grief?
Really, if she'd just focus on what's
good in her life right now, she
wouldn't feel this way, you say. 

Do I irritate you?
Do you see me as the contradictory one?

The one who shouldn’t feel this

way? I mean, wasn’t she the one who

broke up with him, anyway? you say.

Is it hard to be in the same room with me?

Who am I to you? Am I the cruel one?

The one you look to and blame?
She broke his heart and that’s

why this happened, you say.

And how do you feel around me?

Do I frighten you? Do my waves

threaten to crash on your shore, too?

Are you afraid they’ll wash away what

you, too, are trying to keep in place?

Or do you want to draw me near?
Do you want to take me in and wrap

me up? Tape my windows and bar

my doors? Protect me from the next

storm? And there is always a next storm.

Does the sight of me sicken you? Do

you hold me responsible for your

own discomfort? When I walk in the

room, do you forget your lines? Forget

your way? Do I remind you to forget?

Or do you draw strength from me?
Do you see me clothed in grace and

dignity? Do you imagine yourself in

a similar position and hope you’d

move like I move? Speak like I speak?

Invite me. Invite me in.

Invite me to reflect your own losses.

You are here, in this reflection with me.

Day 203: And the Truth Is...

"...As we breathed into the truth of what had hap­pened in our lives, safe in the pro­tec­tive com­mu­nity we built together, we began to dis­cover that the unbear­able became bear­able, that by whis­per­ing “yes” instead of scream­ing “no,” an inef­fa­ble grace began to fill the space of our shat­tered hearts.  Soon, not only could we carry our own impos­si­ble grief, but from there it was a small move to take in the pain of the whole world, and offer our own most ten­der prayer of peace. Mirabai Star- "Softening into the Pain"

I'm continuing to participate in a 30-day grief writing workshop and yesterday's prompt asked us to explore the passage above. It unexpectedly took me to a place of writing about the truth of what happened, and this was a surprise to me. I'd written a bit about it before, but this went deeper, I think.

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Dear Gareth,

I miss you.

And yet you’re here. Everywhere.

How can that be?

I want to be settled with the new relationship we have. How I can feel you but not be touched by you. How I can hear your words in others but not be soothed by your voice. How I can be 100% certain that you’re taking pleasure in seeing my joy, but I can’t watch your face light up.

I miss you.

I want to soften into that missing. I want to walk gently into that room with the lights dimmed and know there is nothing to be afraid of. I want to find comfort in relating to you in a different way.

Right now it just makes me incredibly sad.

This weekend the Daegu Theater Troupe put on a 24-hour play festival. I remember encouraging you to seek out theater here in Korea after we talked about what fed us. I remember sending you a link to tryouts for “The Princess Bride” with this same theater group. I remember talking out with you how feasible it would really be, even with you an hour away from where rehearsals were and even with the fact it would seriously cut into the time you and I spent together.

I wanted you to be fed. I wanted our spirits to be full.

I remember how you almost backed out the morning of rehearsals. You were incredibly stressed and in a bit of a state. You were agitated and uncertain of yourself. I would not let you quit, just like I knew you were pushing me through the toughest half-marathon I’d run the winter before. You can do it. I knew you could do it.

And you did. I remember sitting with you in the large room at the YMCA in downtown Daegu before tryouts. Forms were filled out. Introductions were made. Lines were being nervously rehearsed. “Oh, I’m not trying out. I’m just here to support my boyfriend who is.” I was there to support you.

How could you not feel that all the way till the end? I’m still crushed by the idea that you could ever think I abandoned you. How very loved you felt until the very end. How your refusal (or inability) to get help for what was troubling you led me to the most difficult decision to date I have ever had to make.

Space.

I danced around it for you to get help and then drew the line clearly in the sand. Here. Here is where I must stand to be well and healthy and not dragged down by your self-destruction and here- here is where you must be alone to address that. Please address it. Please get well and come back to me.

You could not get well.

You spiraled, raged, drank, hit, blotted out, imploded, refused, drowned, made out, touched, kissed, held, wept, howled, attacked, threatened, sank down.  And then you crawled out of a window on the fourth floor of an apartment and could not keep your grip.

You were always gripping on so hard to life. To me. To what could offer you great joy. You could not hold on.

And this breaks my heart.

I like to think of what tethered you to this world: me, us, your writing, your theater group, friends at Dongguk University, connections with a very few that you let in, scattered across the globe. It didn’t come easily for you. You struggled in each of these areas, although not many saw it.

Your theater group, until the very end, saw you as someone who was jubilant, connected, engaging, and happy. And you certainly could be. What they didn’t see was the incredible anguish and self-hatred you could experience on the way to rehearsal. You and I in the car for the hour drive. Me behind the wheel. You in the passenger seat with your script holding the lines we’d run over and over the night before. You’d get a line wrong and rage would sweep over you. “I’M A CUNT! I’M A CUNT!” you’d scream. Once I even saw you punch yourself in the arm.

The first time I heard you refer to yourself in this way, I was shocked. Later, I was only saddened.  You left no room in this life for you to make errors of any kind. You were your greatest enemy.

How you must have held it in when being around your theater group. How you must have pushed down that self-criticism when rehearsing with them is beyond me. How you held on. You were always holding on.

I remember how you’d doubt yourself and all that you said and did when I’d pick you up from rehearsals. “I said [such-and-such] to [so-and-so]. Do you think that was too much? Should I have not said that? Was it funny, or too much? Maybe it was too much.” No one there saw that side of you.  You were just funny, charming, likeable Gareth.

You were funny. Charming. And likeable, Gareth. Why would you ever doubt that?

I think you loved being with me so much because that doubt melted in time. I saw it melting. “You really like me, don’t you? You really find me attractive.” You were starting to believe it. Yes. Yes, I do. 

And in time, your confidence around me grew. You felt secure. You felt loved. Wanted. Valued. Appreciated. You were certain of my feelings for you and you knew I was genuine. And when I saw bits and pieces of your darker self, the one you tried so desperately to hide from everyone, you found in me a partner who didn't run from what was hard to see. You felt with me a connection that was indescribably strong- one you had never before had. And I felt the same way.

How devastating that must have felt when I drew that line in the sand. What doubt that must have presented to you unless you were fully able to realize and admit to yourself why it was happening. And you weren’t.

Why weren’t you?

I remember going to this same 24-hour play festival last year. You decided to participate, and this was a good thing. I dropped you off in the morning and went out exploring while you met with your team, worked on the skit, and rehearsed for that evening’s performance.  After the show we’d have to play it by ear. Traditionally, this theater group likes to hit the drink pretty hard, and considering how dangerous (and isolating) that is for me to be around, we were in agreement to go out after and see how it felt. You never wanted me to be uncomfortable and you certainly valued my sobriety.

“If we go out, I’ll only have one or maybe two beers with everyone, and then we can leave,” you said. I was never one to say anything about what you should do in regards to drinking, but I appreciated your awareness of how hard it had been for me to be here in Korea with such a hard-partying crowd. I had also already been witness to some alcohol-related incidents with you which were less than pleasant and you had voiced some concern about how you wanted to “cut down” or “not drink like that with people anymore.” You said that people may be drinking during the day, but you definitely weren’t down for that. You’d wait and have a few afterwards, but not to worry. You just wanted to have a good time with acting.

When I showed up that night to see you perform, you kissed me and you reeked of alcohol. Fuck. I pulled back a bit. “Oh, Goddam it!” you said. (Here was you being instantly furious with yourself.) “I’m sorry. Goddam it. I’ll brush my teeth. I just had a few at rehearsals. Everyone was drinking. Fuck. Fuck it all. Can’t I have one beer?!” (Sometimes you’d go into a kind of confusing, defensive, self-hating monologue without me inserting any lines whatsoever. It was clear you had had more than one drink.)

You had a show to do. And this should be fun for both of us. I said nothing about the drinking and knew I wouldn’t until we could talk about it later. “It’s ok, babe. Just…have a great show. I’m looking forward to seeing you perform!”

And the performance was great. Your group included Anna and Rachel, who I had dinner with last night, by the way- and I will always be grateful to you for connecting me with these women.  You were funny. You got laughs, and I know that felt good. You delivered your lines with enthusiasm and you were in your element. All of this was good.

After the show, we decided to join up with everyone at a restaurant. How we ended up walking alone there, I don’t remember. Maybe we stayed back to talk. Either way, you were increasingly agitated- spiraling out with self-hatred and anger. It was never directed at me (until the end), but it was heartbreaking and confusing to see. My discomfort was justified- I am a person who cannot drink with someone who keeps promising not to and then doing it anyway.

“I think I might be one of you.”

I didn’t know you had said this to a recovering alcoholic friend until after you died.

“The thing is, I just need to not drink at home alone anymore.”

You had been doing some late-night drinking and having trouble getting to work.

“I just need to learn not to get online when I’ve been drinking.”

This after disturbing late-night communication with me and a threatening message to your former recruiter.

“I’ll only have one or two drinks and then we’ll leave.”

This was at Thippy’s birthday party when I was worried about being the only one not drinking. And many drinks for you later, I decided to leave.

 “I’m going out with Martin for some makgeolli and then I’ll be back in an hour or so.”

I woke up at 6 a.m. and you were still not home. You had stayed out all night drinking and crashed on Martin’s floor.

“Don’t tell Bridget about my drinking.”

You said this to several friends in Gyeongju who were witness to your heavy drinking mid-week when I wasn’t around. I found out about this also after you died.

“I think Gareth has a problem. Sometime he shows up at work and he doesn’t even look like himself.”

Your coworkers were getting concerned.

You held on so tightly. But you had to let go.

How hard was it to hold on when we were together? After Thippy’s birthday party (and that was early on in our dating), I never saw you get drunk again. If it weren’t for those two disturbing late-night calls (one where you thought you were getting fired from your job and you screamed “They’re laughing at me! They’re all laughing at me! I’m going to stab them and stab myself!”)- if it weren’t for these calls, I may not have had a clue.

Because- you held on so tightly.

You appeared so…normal…to everyone else. Those closer to you may witness a guy who was occasionally stressed out or a little hard on himself, but still, nothing to note but a bit of quirkiness.

Those even closer may have seen a guy who could drink a bit too much sometimes, but again, doesn’t everyone over here?

And then there was me. Who saw it all except for what you tried so hard to keep hidden. What a cruel joke that the love of your life would be a sober person while you were needing alcohol to manage your demons.

And then I drew that line. I drew it after you had agreed to see a psychiatrist in Seoul and not to drink anymore. You were desperate to keep me near, and I was desperate not to let your destruction, even if I only saw it sporadically, take me with you. You had sent me an adorable email of a 3-pronged approach to you getting better and I was cautiously optimistic. I went to Thailand for a 2-week vacation and you had great plans of exercise, getting back into meditation, eating better, taking the meds the psychiatrist had prescribed for what he thought was a “social anxiety disorder,” and not drinking. You had decided to lay off of the booze completely.

Then came the late-night drunk messages a few nights before I was to return. They were almost indecipherable. They were confusing. They were, again, heartbreaking, because I knew you would not or could not do it. I chose not to respond until I could be detached enough not to say anything I’d regret. Your messages increased in desperation. I addressed your drinking. You denied it and then were defensive, saying you missed me, that was all. You were missing me and that’s why you drank. You shouldn’t have been online, you said. You shouldn’t have sent those messages, you explained.

Oh, Gareth. Why was this happening?

When I explain you were going to have to choose to get better without me- that it was too painful to watch you dip into this behavior and I’d need to step back completely while you did or didn’t get better, you snapped.

Over a hundred angry emails, increasingly disturbing and eventually threatening, in a 12-hour period. Things I thought you were never capable of saying to me, your love, your love-person, your sweetheart, the you of your words, were being hurled across space to land on my computer screen over and over and over. You were losing it completely.

You lost it completely.

You could not hold on any longer and you slipped. You fell. We died right there together and I had no idea.

Like I knew you wouldn’t actually “stab them and stab [yourself]” in the alcohol-fueled rage you expressed six months earlier in that unexpected late-night call about your job, I also knew you didn’t mean what you were typing. I knew that you were hurling grenades to try to protect yourself. I braced for the time when it would hit you- what you were doing and saying- and your great grief and remorse would set in.

How would you be able to hold on when you realized what you had said to your love, your love-person, your sweetheart, the you of your words? 

And when it did start to sink in, you were smothered by the weight of it. Devastated. There was no amount of whisky to dull the sharp edges you had created.

Less than four weeks, my love. Less than for weeks left on this earth for you after this incident. Four weeks of intensive drinking, of self-hatred, of trying to numb out in anyway possible. Less than four weeks of trying to hold it together, to hold on.

Less than four weeks of spiraling, raging, drinking, hitting, blotting out, imploding, refusing, drowning, making out, touching, kissing, holding, weeping, howling, attacking, threatening, sinking down. Less than four weeks of this. And then you were dead.

You had been up and drinking for more than 48-hours straight at the point that you climbed out, turned around, and lowered your feet into the space below.

You could not hold on.

I’m sorry.

I’m sorry that I was not enough. That we were not enough.

That the new friends and theater group and joy and love were not enough.

You could not hold on.

Yesterday I drove downtown to the YMCA in Daegu to meet my own team for the 24-hour play festival. We worked with the script. We went thrifting for costumes. We rehearsed. We blocked. And at 7:00 we performed to an audience. I did this for you. I did this because you loved it and you did it and you would have loved nothing more than to have seen me do it as well. “Gareth would have been so proud of you,” Anna told me last night. “He would have really loved seeing you tonight. You did a great job.”

You would have. It’s true. And after it was over and the crowds were leaving the building, I stood in that empty room, the one where I had watched you perform the year before and where I had just performed, myself, the weight of it sunk in.

I missed you. I missed you so much that it physically hurt. And here came the sobbing. The crippling grief that causes me to grab at my stomach and my heart as though I could reach in and pull out what is causing me pain. The missing of you. God, Gareth, I miss you so much.

And this is so painful to write. Even more painful to feel. I want you back here with me. Your hand in my hand. Our foreheads touching. In love. Happy. Laughing. Next to me.

You could not hold on to that.

But, my love, my sweetheart, my love-person…I will do that for us now. I will hold on. Even when I don't think I have it in me to hold myself here. I will grab this life with all of my might and I will hold on.

Love,
Bridget

Right after last year's 24-hour theater festival.

With Rae, Jackie, and Alyssa after our performance last night at Daegu Theater Troupe's 24-hour play festival. Seen here with the awards we swept: best play, best actress, best writer, and best use of a prop. Gareth would have loved this.

                                        

Day 202: How I Will Behave Better

(I'm part of a continued community of writers and mourners in a 30-day writing workshop found here: http://www.refugeingrief.com/30daywriting/) This is day 11.

September 18, 2014.

This is how I will behave better.

When my friend leans across the table

from me at our local ice cream shop

while I am picking the almonds out of

my jamoca almond fudge and she is

sweeping her spoon across her

scoop of strawberry cheesecake-

When she leans across that table and

says, “You think your life is bad?” and

then proceeds to tell me about a friend

of hers who found out her husband

was gay and is getting a divorce-

You think YOUR life is bad? and how

she also has to get heart surgery,

this. This is how I will behave better.

I will begin by throwing what’s left

of my jamoca almond fudge, no, hurling

it, across the room until it splatters on

the glass doors of the nearby freezer.

The one with the little cakes shaped like

dogs and stars and rainbows and shit.

I will reach across the table and snatch

the ice cream cup out of her hands,

dumping its contents onto the floor.

I will fling my shoes off and send them

flying in any direction I choose and I

will use my bare feet to dance wildly-

dance with rage, dance with reckless

abandon- in what was her perfectly

round scoop of cheese-fucking-cake

ice cream. I will do this as she sits

slack-jawed and the change in the hand

of the woman at the counter slips from

her fingertips and falls to the tile floor.

I will make sounds like a banshee. I

will laugh and scream and tear at my

clothing and make sounds like a banshee.

I will lie on my belly like a snake and

drag myself across the ice-cream slicked

floor, writhing this way and that and I

will scream like a woman who’s lost

the entire world. Like a woman

who’s lost everything she held

dear. I will curse loudly at the

space between me and the box of

ashes sitting in the childhood home

of my love, miles and miles away. I

will scream so loudly that space

between will be filled with my sounds.

EVERYONE HEAR ME NOW! HEAR

THE SOUNDS OF MY RAGE!  HEAR

ME NOWWWWWWWWWWWWW!

And only then will the laughter

commence. The uncontrollable I’m-

in-church-and-shouldn’t-be-laughing

laughter. I will flip to my back there

on the floor of the ice cream shop,

strawberry cheesecake ice cream

matted in my hair, and I will laugh

to the heavens above while my friend

remains mouth agape and the change

from the lady at the counter still

makes its jingling roll to a steady stop.

And when that coin and I each make

our last wobbles back and forth there

on the floor and after the several seconds

of silence that follow, I will sit up, no

gracefully come to my feet, wipe the

last of my jamoca almond fudge from

my mouth, and say to my friend, “I’m

sorry. What was that you were saying?”

Day 201: Trying On The Writing of Others

(I'm part of a continued community of writers and mourners in a 30-day writing workshop found here: http://www.refugeingrief.com/30daywriting/) This is day 10.

September 16, 2014

Holy mother. I need to come up for air. I've noticed a bit of trouble sleeping the past few nights- that awake until 3 a.m. with mind racing kind of thing like the early days. I'm not surprised. All of the writing from this course I'm in is probably acting like an open window with a sudden breeze disturbing all of the recently settled dust in my heart.

Today's prompt introduced us to the poem below ("Weariness" by Hannah Arendt) and invited us to write in her style, borrow a line, or merely write in response to her piece. I was reminded of the "echo poems" I did with my 7th and 8th graders- a process by which a poem's structure is mimicked allowing the writer to substitute his/her own words and create a different meaning entirely. I especially loved hearing 20 or so "versions" of the same poem in a single class. (For teachers/writers out there, Billy Collins' poem "On Turning 10" is a great one to do. Pick an age and brainstorm some memories about that particular age, then use his structure to create your own piece.)

"Echo poems" are like trying on different things and seeing how they feel on you.

I decided to set the grief down for a moment. And by "set it down" I mean it is still firmly wrapped around my being. I just leaned back and propped the heaviness against the nearest object behind me to relieve myself of the weight. And in doing so, I'm able to engage with the lighter feelings a bit more. I need some lighter feelings.

And I want to point out that this is not always a conscious choice with certain results, lest I give you the impression that someone in deep grief can just "decide" to set it down for a moment and concentrate on joyful things. In fact, nothing infuriates me more that being told that if I just "focus on the positives" my grief will dissipate. Grief is there. And it's heavy. And it's really, really hard. It washes up and over without the recipient's invitation and is not set down at will. However, at the moment, I'm choosing to write about more joyful feelings because I've been granted the energy and the space in which to do that. In the longer, unseen process of things, this is where I need to be right now.

And it's a bit of a relief.

So, below is the original poem and my "echo."

I enjoyed that so much that I looked up some other grief-related poems with the intent of echoing my joy. I selected a piece by Elizabeth Browning, aptly titled "Grief." My writing follows:

“Grief” Elizabeth Browning

I tell you, hopeless grief is passionless;
That only men incredulous of despair,
Half-taught in anguish, through the midnight air
Beat upward to God’s throne in loud access
Of shrieking and reproach. Full desertness,
In souls as countries, lieth silent-bare
Under the blanching, vertical eye-glare
Of the absolute Heavens. Deep-hearted man, express
Grief for thy Dead in silence like to death–
Most like a monumental statue set
In everlasting watch and moveless woe
Till itself crumble to the dust beneath.
Touch it; the marble eyelids are not wet:
If it could weep, it could arise and go.

“Joy” by Bridget Maret
(with apologies to Elizabeth Browning)

I sing to you, boundless joy is memory;
That those who have climbed deep in into love,
Wholly-disclosed one’s being, shows through midnight walks
And beating hearts outward to the one who hears
Its rhythm and recognizes it as his own. Full joy,
In bodies as maps, explored luxuriously bare
Under the blankets, wanting eyes follow
each state’s boundary. Heaven. Deep-hearted me, express
Joy for your Love Lost out loud- like a wild announcement-
Most like a pronouncement of what was held
In joyful hands and exploding hearts
Till the joy itself sparks and illuminates my heart inside.
See it; my heart is not only heavy in grief:
If it could tell you of its joy remembered, it would sing and rise.

Echo poems are a great way to plop your stuff right down on top of someone else's writing. It allows me to think about word choice and the structure of writing more than just spilling out my experiences on the page let me do.

Tonight my writing could exist within the boundaries of someone else's writing. I had edges that kept me from spilling off the page and onto the floor. And within those edges I could remember joy. And the love I felt and still feel for Gareth Lochhead.

For that I am grateful.

Day 200: Seeing some Cosmos/Remembering a Color

September 16, 2014

I'm part of a continued community of writers and mourners in a 30-day writing workshop found here: http://www.refugeingrief.com/30daywriting/.

Today's prompt asks us to explore colors- to choose a color and write from there. 

I must say, I'm a bit tapped out. Spent. My writer is broken. Perhaps it's from 8 continued days of writing. (I told a friend today that this course is like scratch n' sniff stickers. "When I write, I scratch and scratch and scratch the feelz and then I spend all day smellin' 'em.")

That gets a wee bit exhausting. Good. But exhausting.

An extra cosmic smack-down came from the sight of these cosmos along the river as I took a walk after school today. Cosmos were, and are, my favorite flower, and Gareth often arrived at my door with a handful he had stopped to pick along the way. 

He wrote about them twice in two different poems. He wrote,

I stopped outside your school's
blue gate, across the road
surrounded by a cadre of
white, pink and purple cosmos.

He wrote about leaving one- a pink one- on my desk that day.

He wrote about about how, before getting back into his car to drive away from my school, he stopped at that cadre of cosmos and picked some for his girl. He did this often.

Leaving, blooms overruled
my reason, requiring lightly
that I pick some more.

He wrote about this particular selection of cosmos, the ones he'd planned on giving me after I got off work. He wrote about them dying in the foot-well of his car in the short time it took him to go by his school, pick up books and say "good afternoon" to a few people. 

This would not do, him showing up empty handed. He had planned on surprising me with a bouquet of wild flowers. My favorite flowers. He wrote about looking forward to my smile. My "growing joy." He wrote about driving to meet me with these dead flowers at the foot of the passenger seat.

Just past the place where
Valley Avenue turns off for the
County Hall, new cosmos crept
in sight, and again, I stopped.

Korea explodes in the sight of my favorite flower in the days and weeks of last summer and early fall. He and I walked through fields of them at a Cosmos Festival in Bukcheon last year and the year before. I knew the sight of them was coming again. I just hadn't expected on rounding the corner today and being met with their painful beauty. Their stunningly beautiful sorrow.

Pick me. They were saying. Pick me for that girl of yours. Lay us gently in the foot of your passenger side and if we die- if we die- do not worry. You can just get some more.

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All that to say when it came to sitting down and writing to today's prompt this evening, I had not much to give. The sight of those cosmos flattened me. The wave that grabbed me and took me under was not only unexpected, but left me feeling quite spent. Out of breath. Low to the ground. I can feel myself recharging now. Happy cells regenerating. But at the moment, an acrostic poem (with the words "charcoal grey" is about all I could do. I used the non-preferred spelling of "gray" instead of "grey" as it seemed to fit better.

Cap. That cap. You

Had three (green, blue, grey)

And loved this one the most.

Regularly worn on a

Chilly day on our frequent

Outings. Here

Among a

Large collection of brass Buddhas. That

Grey jacket. That one with the

Really small moth hole. You

Admired the way it matched the cap.

Yes. But I admired you in it.