Tired

I'm tired.
Of this.
Of that.
Of all of it.

I'm tired of putting
the butter back in
the fridge. The cap
back on the toothpaste.

I'm tired of putting
on socks when my
feet are cold. I'm
tired of plugging
my phone in when
the battery weakens.

And, no. That wasn't
a metaphor. I'm tired
of the metaphors.

The mind does
funny things when
we feel trapped in
discomfort. Tonight,
I viewed images of
meteorites which had
fallen to the earth.

I've been hoping
a meteorite may
land on me. You
don't need to tell me
how ridiculous this
is. I already know.

It just seems like
if they have to land
somewhere...you know.

I'm tired.

I don't pray for
blood clots or
aneurysms like
I did in the beginning.
I've moved on.
To meteorites.

The mind. My mind.
It's trying to help
me out. Give me some
relief. It still pictures
jumping from high
places when I'm out
walking my dog.
The overpass. That
apartment over there.
That one. Or that one.

Maybe that disturbs
you. Maybe that causes
you to worry about my
well-being. I'm used to
it by now. Rest assured,
I am not suicidal.

I am simply tired.
And I feel trapped.

I've traded those
early days of grief
for something different.
And this new face of
is ugly. Bursts of energy
and lightness,
reassurances to everyone
(including myself) that
things are "getting better."

And then they're not.
They are.
And then they're not.
I can.
And then I can't.

And if I really tell you
of how hard it is, if
I really explain how
sometimes I'm stuck
in bed for hours at a time-
under the weight of
sadness- isn't there
just this little part of
you- this really little part
(and let's be honest) that
thinks perhaps I'm just not
"moving on"? Isn't there
a little voice in your head
that questions how I could
still be this sad? Still?

There must be.
Because I can hear it, too.

I'm tired of it.
Of this.
Of this grief.

I'm exhausted from
the longing.
From the missing.
From the self-
criticisms.
My ears are sore
from the sheer volume
of it all. My hands are
calloused from grabbing
at any and everything
on the way down.

I'm tired of writing
about this.

I'm tired.

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.

To Shakespeare, on the Year Anniversary of Going to See My Love for the Last Time

To Shakespeare, on the Year Anniversary
of Going to See My Love for the Last Time

I searched tonight through your sonnets
as though you had written me the code years
before to crack the mystery of what-is-this-inside.
A Shakespearean horoscope in reverse.
I thought you could scratch this itch of loss.

Where are you when I need you, William, or
is it Will, or what did your lover call you when
kissing your eyelids at night when the moon
illuminated your lashes? You've always echoed
back to me experiences of love or wonder or
feelings of loss. Tonight your words ring empty.

Your well-metered lines of loss and love
impress me, no doubt. But no where in there
do you speak of what it's like to feel cured
of grief, setting fire to action again: teaching,
laughing, running, reading, connecting-
and then suddenly finding yourself unable
to comprehend a simple text message or
lift a cup of long-awaited tea to your lips.

You do not write of tea going cold and
friends' messages left unanswered. Damn
you and your beautiful words. I need you.

Where is your sonnet woven from your
thoughts on the anniversary of the death of
your love? I want to read about your despair,
your experience, softened by centuries between
us. I need something to soften the blow.

This past year I ripped open my loss and
spread its slime across my face, my hair,
my eyes, my mouth. I vomited and dry-heaved
words of loss and pushed them hard into my
computer screen. My mind has grown tired
from a full attack sensory replay of those days
from February 28th until March 4th and the
few days that followed. Today I hit stop.

Do you see now? I need to read your
words to keep me from writing my own.
I will not write about it today. I will not
so much as think about it today. Please.
Help me give myself a fucking break. Help
me keep in the words that want to come
out and are not welcome here. Not today.

beard                empty     bracelet
                   beeping       dry
      black plastic             green
crisp                tube          speakers
          warm             chest
    sound           waiting      hallway
 call            lips            torn
      backpack           wallet       sorry
holes           washing      blood
       embrace           bear
    hands         lights      elevator
           heels         today
not today

                 not today
                                    not today

My Next Calling

15 February, 2015

I used to be a great teacher.
A performer.
I used to weave effortlessly
between learning styles.
Between lessons.
I used to be a great teacher.

I used to be a great manager.
A diffuser of tricky situations.
I used to hire enthusiastically
and fire compassionately
and train carefully in between.

I used to get glowing
performance reviews.
I used to get promoted.
I used to get noticed.
I used to be great at my job.

I applied for and got a new
job last year. A university
job in a town near Gareth's
with a schedule like Gareth's
and with promise of giving
me a chance to do my thing-
do what I did best- teaching.

I left Gareth back in a hotel
room in Daegu the morning
I interviewed for my job. "I
don't need to wish you good
luck," he said as I gathered
my things and searched for
my purse. "Anybody who
wouldn't want you doesn't
deserve to have you. You're
an amazing teacher." And
he kissed me goodbye.

And I kind of was. I mean,
I seemed to have an infinite
passion for teaching. I
seemed to have an uptapped
energy supply for putting into
lessons. For coming up with
creative solutions to otherwise
boring learner objectives.

I used to be a great teacher.

My new employer was promised
this teacher in my interview. Why
wouldn't I deliver what I said I
would? It used to be effortless. I
used to feel gifted. My new employer
has never seen this teacher. Death
has pulled the old bait-n-switch.

I used to be good at what I did.

Maret teacher did not show up for
her first class. Phone calls were made.
Classes were canceled. Some were
covered by other teachers. Maret teacher
was not standing in front of her new
class, dazzling get-to-know-you
activities in place. Rosters ready to
be checked. English ready to be spoken.

I was instead waiting. Waiting for
visiting time again so I could cross
the threshold of those double steel
doors and lie with my love. Waiting
for his family to make the long flight
from New Zealand. Waiting to see
them walk down the hospital corridor.
Waiting for the news we already knew.
Waiting for signs that apologies were
heard. That reassurances were felt.
Waiting for my love's heart to stop.

I was not there in class for the days
that followed- the days of ash. The
days of dust. I returned on the Monday
of the second week of classes. I
returned an empty shell of what I was.

I used to be a good teacher.

This facsimile of myself, this
person who walked like me and
talked like me, got herself dressed
each day and put herself in front
of a classroom of students. She
smiled and bounced and whirled
and twirled. She hit "next" on
the powerpoint slide each and
every time. She was good at hitting
"next." She used to be a good teacher.

It took 100% of my energy to
appear 25% as engaged as I used
to be. Blinking hurt. Breathing
seemed no longer an involuntary
activity. For an 11:00 class, I was
often sobbing in my car until 10:58
and back at it at 11:05. I showed up.
And I did the absolute very best
I could, which may be adequate.

I used to be more than adequate.

I've completed 2 semesters in
this job and am returning soon
for a third. I've twice started
voluteering with our university's
special needs population and
twice dropped my intentions
because if energy went towards
volunteering, it seemed to be
taken away from somewhere else,
like having the ability to feed
myself or order a coffee without
bawling. I used to be able to
take on more. I used to be able
to give. And give. And give.

I think back to that interview
and imagine what they thought
they were getting. I can't tell
you how much I wish my boss,
my co-workers, my students
could have met that person.
The one I was before. Sometimes
I can picture what she'd be
doing now. Developing interesting
classes and testing them out.
Collaborating with other instructors.
Getting students involved in
learning in a way that makes
others stand up and take notice.

I am the teacher now who flies
under the radar. I am the one
who takes 3 hours to make a
lesson that should only take 1.
I am the teacher who finds chatting
with others at the staff holiday
party a real challenge. Stay present.
Nod. Smile. Ask questions. Nod
again. Sip your soda water. Don't
you dare cry. There's nothing 
remotely even grief-related 
happening now. Do. not. cry.
I am the girl who cries in the office.
I am the girl who cries in the car.
I'm afraid I have a reputation as
the crying girl. The grieving one.

I used to be the coworker people loved
being around. I used to make others laugh.
I used to walk with purpose and almost
in kind of a hurry. There was so much
to be done, always, and I loved doing it.

This new teacher makes mistakes.
Mis-reads emails and sends something
in too late. Or too early. Or not at all.
This new teacher confuses the old
schedule for the new one and misses
a language clinic. Just- doesn't show up.
This new teacher patted herself on the
back that morning for looking at the
schedule and realizing she didn't have
to be there. Except that she did.

Who is this person?

This new teacher recognizes
that old feeling of teaching passion
and shares a link with 80-odd members
of her staff. A lesson idea for a particular
class. This new teacher is reminded
that only 5 of those 80 teachers actually
teach the particular class. (subtext: what
are you doing sending that email to the
entire staff when only 5 people may
even be remotely interested in it?)

I used to share all types of ideas
and links. Good ones. Ones that
generated conversations and led
to creative practices in the classroom.
This new teacher can't even send an
email to the right people.

I recently sent an email to my director,
a kind man who has no trouble telling
it like it is- a quality needed for being
responsible for 80 staff members.

"Hi, Patrick-" I wrote, "just wanted
to let you know I've been in communication
with Patrick about the new course."
(subtext: I'm on top of things. Except
I wrote "Patrick" twice. The second guy's
name is "Paul.") "Do you mean Paul?" wrote
Patrick. (subtext: Do you even know the
names of the people you work with?")

I used to be somebody who clearly
knew the difference between Patrick
and Paul, and had nearly impeccable
rereading/correcting skills before hitting
"send" on emails. "Yes. I meant Paul."

I fear I'm giving the impression that
I'm someone who can't follow emails.
Someone who misses important things.
Someone who certainly isn't seen as
a star teacher. I'm afraid I'm not only
giving that impression, but that it's true.

And maybe it is.

There's something that seems
clear to me, and that is that as much
as I am a teacher through and through,
I am not the same person I was before
Gareth died. I never will be.

And that opens up some questions.
If I can't slip back into that role,
if I was passionately led to teach
for 14 years, then is it possible
that I'm being passionately led
away from teaching? Is this a cosmic
shake-up? Am I getting another calling,
and if so, will I hear it when it rings?

I know what I was.
And I know what I am not now.
And a bit of that is heartbreaking.

But I also know what I am and
what I have come to know about
myself as a result of seeing how
I navigate through such a great loss.

I am a connector.
I am a writer.
I am a gifted communicator.
I am not afraid to be right up close-
nose-to-nose with grief, death,
people in trauma, and those who
are suffering. I am not afraid.

I am drawn to populations
that others often find baffling-
teenagers, homeless, mentally ill,
elderly. I am drawn to those for
whom the veils are thin. I am
drawn to those who have a toe
dipped in another existence:
teen to adult, dying to dead,
losing to lost. I am drawn to these
people. I always have been.

I am comfortable speaking
in front of a crowd. I am shameless
in the good way. I am not against
using my own pain to help others
laugh and sometimes to help others
name their own discomfort. I am
good at putting it all out there.
I am good at saying what others
are sometimes afraid to say.

I am adventurous. I like to be out
of my comfort zone.

I am compassionate. I can listen
and even better than that, I can hear.
I can hear what people are saying,
and I care a great deal about them.

I may not have the same type
of energy left to teach like I
once did. That's a possibility.
And in the meantime, my best
efforts are good enough. I won't
win any teacher awards, but
I also won't be getting fired.
Students are learning and they
are happy. They don't know they're
getting shortchanged. Only I know
that. And I can't seem to do a damn
thing about it at the moment.

I will go back in a few weeks.
I will give it everything I possibly
have. And I will listen. I will listen
for what I think may be ringing in
the not so distant future: my next calling.

Joy! And Backlash. It Happens.

Dear Grief,

Fuck you.

No, really.

Fuck you and the window you flew out of.

Fuck you for causing me to use language that others may read and will ruin my reputation as a sweet girl.  I used to be a sweet girl.

Fuck you.

Yes, I'm angry. I'm angry because you are insatiable. You take and take and take and at some point, isn't it just enough?

Yesterday I put on my red boots and walked 6 blocks in the rain through the latter part of the alphabet to a neighborhood coffee shop:

Northrup.
Overton.
Pettygrove.
Quimbly.
Raleigh.
Savier.
Thurman.
turn right.

There. Dragonfly Coffee House. I ordered a latte and a breakfast bar and took an available seat in front of the sugar/water/cream counter, facing the door, and catching the rush of cold air each time someone new came in.

It was here I came to write. I came to write about the lightness felt while traveling to Gareth's home last month. I came to write about the many people I connected with while there. Family. Friends. Teachers. Writers. Flatmates. God-seekers. I came to write about what it was like to return to my "normal" self: to eat and want to do so, to go for long morning runs and have the energy to do it, to laugh until my belly ached, to dance in the kitchen while cleaning.

I wrote about setting grief down at the door of Gareth's home. I wrote about the absence of deep grief. I wrote about joy.

I sorted through photo albums to find pictorial evidence of what I remembered being so wonderful. And there they were; photos of me laughing, embracing people, smiling, enjoying. It's obvious. It really happened.

I ended the piece with an exclamation mark.

!

"No one can never accuse you of not making a difference!"

I published the post. I shared it with friends.

Look at me! I'm experiencing joy!

"I am ready for this life without you. With pieces of you woven in. And traces of you in things to come," I wrote.

I wrote those words. And I felt them.  I can do this. And everything is ok.

Hours later the shame began rolling in like an undetected and silent storm. Something felt strange. Something felt wrong.

By the time I tucked myself into the twin bed in the room I'm sharing with my friend's pre-teen daughter, I was mortified that I had shared this writing with others, let alone even written it at all.

Grief was back. It was dark and heavy and damp. And this time it had a voice:

You think you were connected? Connected? Ha! Ooooh. Look at you! Look at you with all of those people. What's so special about you? That you connect? That you had fun? You're pathetic. 

And I couldn't stop it.

What do you think you're going to do now, huh? Just travel around and "connect" with everyone?

It was mocking me.

You think that makes you happy? Do you think you're happy? Have you forgotten who you are? 

It was causing me to doubt myself.

And now look! Brilliant! You broadcasted it to the world, so now everyone thinks you're all better. You thought you were all better. They're celebrating now. They're celebrating a lie. 

And it came at me from every angle.

Gareth's dad said he hoped you could move on. Gareth's mum noted your joy. Everyone saw a different you. And you can't sustain it. Only now, you're coming up on the year mark and no one's going to want to hear your sob story anymore. You're time is up. Session is over. Compassion expired. 

Is that true? It can't be true. Why does it sound so convincing?

Everyone's going to see how weak you are. How you must like being miserable. Oh, and by the way, Gareth's gone and not coming back. He's dead. Integrate him into your life? Integrate him? Oh, how sickeningly sweet. You're misguided. You're naive. You're done for. 

By morning I'd wished I could have just gone back and erased it all. How jarring to have your genuine self questioned. I thought I was in deep joy, and Grief's backlash caused me to doubt that it was ever so.

Enter Megan Devine. And if you've been a frequent visitor to my blog, my story, my series of events, you'll know I happened upon her while searching the internet for support in those first few weeks after Gareth died. I found first her website, then her audiobook "When Everything is Not Okay." and finally ended up taking her 30-day writing course.

As a person who experienced the sudden drowning death of her partner, she got it. All of it. And her background as a therapist, a writer, and an artist made what she had to share incredibly accessible. She didn't have answers. She didn't tell me everything would be ok. She acknowledged the great abyss of loss and that's exactly what I needed.

As it turns out, she moved to Portland, where I currently am visiting my good friend Maud. When Megan learned of Maud's cancer re-diagnosis and need to go through chemo yet again, she was quick to made a food delivery in my name. Not much could be done from Korea, where I am living, and having Megan and Maud together in one space- these two women who have played incredibly pivotal roles in my life- was a great source of comfort.

Fast forward a few months to present day. After a friend's suggestion and a bit of financial support, I was encouraged to make a short trip out here to be with Maud and her family before I return to work at the end of the month. And it is here that Megan and I got to meet in person for the first time.

Today we met for lunch, and besides the fact that she's even more adorable in person than on the internet (I think I told her that she looked like a cute little warm muffin right from the oven), she was able to effortlessly flow through conversational topics as everyday as hair care and as deep as what it's like to feel attracted to someone years after her partner died.

We had lunch at a little mediterranean place and then walked in a random pattern on the grid of Portland's downtown streets. We sought out a sanctuary to send our good thoughts to a grieving member of the writing community and held cups of hot coffee in our hands. We waited at lights and crossed streets and stepped down curbsides and stepped back up again. We were asked for change twice, once while we stood still on the sidewalk pointing out where on our faces grief has aged us the most. We laughed some and each teared up once, both at different times.

with Megan Divine and a blurry lady walking by

"Love is not pink and fluffy and soft. Love is not Valentine's Day. Love is disconnecting someone you love from life support."

"Every time I have a good day, a good thought, a good experience, it's like I get kicked in the gut right after. Like I have to pay the price. How long does that last?"

And here's what I know now. Here's what Megan put out and here's what floated right beside us after I shared my experience. Here are her words that I tried on and found they fit.

Backlash happens.

"I almost hated having a good day, because I knew what was coming next."

Megan shared about her early days of grief. About those first few years. And again, I wasn't promised it would go away or get better. I was presented with someone else's experience which taught me that I am not defective. That I am not "grieving wrong." I am not a fake or a liar or someone who tried joy for a bit and found it wanting.

"If grief were a physical thing, if it could be understood like that, you'd still be in intensive care," she explained at one point. "I mean, you're out of the woods. Everyone knows you're going to survive. But you're not exactly ready to get discharged and go home."

This fits. This feels right. And I imagine if that doesn't make sense to you, you haven't yet experienced sudden loss.

I think I'll be in rehabilitation for a few years, at least.  And while that might not be clear to the outside world, those in this sacred inner-circle of grief, this Tribe of After, these Warriors of Now that I meet with regularly in a virtual sacred space understand this completely.

And sometimes it's nice to be reminded that even when everything does not feel ok, I'm going about it just fine.

I'm going about this just fine.