Today’s prompt:
- How has this loss made all things feel sharp?
- What might nourish or feed you – even briefly – as you live inside this grief?
- Do you have something to say about your inability to “behave better”?
- Which version of you is more “real”? The moment of feeling nourished, or the moment of feeling full of sharp points?
How has losing Cooper made all things feel sharp? Well, there are reminders everywhere, triggers everywhere. Some reminders are smooth and gentle, but most are still sharp. Jagged, even. Maybe time will smooth the points the way water sculpts stone, but that smoothing takes years. Will these edges gradually wear down? God, I hope so, and I hope it happens before I die of a thousand cuts.
There are escapes. I spend time with friends or family and that time is crucial for me. They’ve been right here with me since August 24th. They help me as much as they are able and as much as I allow. And even though they all assure me I’m not burdensome, I try to nourish myself. I’m an introvert to the core and depend on my solitary time. I write, create something, or listen to a good book. Those are good distractions, and writing is cathartic.
The time that I’m least likely to get myself into a grief spiral is the time I’m at school. My students make me laugh. Honest to God laugh. Although I went back to work a week after Cooper died–possibly too soon–the time at school is overall a good thing. It’s respite care for my grief. Yes, I have days that I just “get through,” but I also have moments of laughter. My students know what happened–Coop died on the fourth day of school–but they didn’t know him. They respect my grief, but they are not themselves sad and that distance allows me to step back from my grief, if only a little. Somehow, this collection of 16-18-year-old young adults has found a way to nourish me inside my grief.
There are days, or often weeks, that I don’t “behave” well, I guess. What I wish people on the outside looking in could understand is that I am trying. I am trying harder, working harder, at this than anything I’ve ever had to do. Still, some days are too much. Some days, no matter how hard I try, how many deep breaths, how much I talk to myself or my safe people, I just can’t get it together or keep it together. At the end of a long, sad, sleep-deprived week, shopping in a store crowded with half-assed maskers and clogged aisles, forgetting things that are right there on my list, and dealing with bags that stick together and then split can be enough to push me to an anxiety attack. On those days, I call it a win if I get to my car before melting down. Could I behave better? Could I handle annoyances better? Old me could. Now, I guess not. But I am trying.
I think the two versions of me are equally real, but not interchangeable. They are situation-dependent. At school, I’m “Woods” or “Mrs. Woods” first. Yes, I’m Cooper’s mom, and yes, my reality exists, but it’s secondary. When I’m Tonya first, my grief does a dead-man’s float on the surface for all to see.
Woods Writes 