“How are you? No, really . . . how are you?”
I’m . . . hmmm . . . not okay, but functional. Exhausted, but still showing up. Tormented, but working on acceptance. Sad. I’m just so damn sad.
Fighting this fresh hell didn’t work, so I’m rolling with it. Rolling with the sadness, the grief, the missing him, the questions and what ifs. Rolling with the things I’ll never know. Just . . . rolling with it.
“Rolling with it” sounds flippant. I promise you, I am far from flippant about losing Cooper, about feeling my way through grief, about keeping his memory alive. About telling his truth.
No, not flippant. Quite the opposite.
To me, rolling with it means I take the grief as it comes, without fighting it, hiding it, or denying it. A terrible thing happened. The worst thing I can imagine, the thing I’ve feared for over 30 years, actually happened. That’s my reality. I can’t wish it away or ignore it. I won’t fight it or hide it or deny it. Cooper deserves better.
Even so, rolling with it is rough. No wussies allowed at the rolling with it rodeo. It’s ugly. Honesty is terrifying. Loss and grief are terrifying. Not contagious, but still so scary. Certainly to be avoided.
Rolling with it means allowing all the ugliness and pain to have their time. The tears are warranted. The sadness is, at this point, still unavoidable. That he died. How he died. All the nasty bits are on display while I’m rolling with it.
Some days are awful, start to finish. Those are the days I count down the hours until going to bed seems like an acceptable choice. Those are the days that Ativan isn’t only for bedtime. It was on one of those days that I learned I can halve an Ativan and still teach. On those days, I want more than anything to talk about Cooper, to bring him to life with my words and stories, but I can’t. It’s too much. So, I cry. Memories are sharp knives, a stab for every tear.
Some days aren’t so awful, although every day since Cooper died has had awful moments. I’ll still cry at some point; that’s what I do. Those less-awful days, I’ll tackle errands after work. Maybe I’ll make supper. Maybe I’ll attend an aqua yoga class. It definitely has to be a less-awful day for me to intentionally lock myself into an unknown social situation. On those days, the less-awful days, Cooper’s name works its way into conversation and stories, just the same as Logan and Cassidy’s names. Memories are warm, weighty blankets, wrapped around my shoulders.
Here’s the rolling with it part. Whether I’m having an awful or less-awful day, I try to face the day, take it for what it is, take myself for what I am in that moment, on that day, and just roll with it. I don’t wallow, but I do allow the grief, my constant companion. I’m a recovering optimist, so I try to see the best. But honestly? Some days just suck.
Still . . . Keep rolling with it.
To me, rolling with it means I tell his truth. It means I say his name. Cooper. Coop. Mountain Man. Gentle Giant. Mine. It also means I say the words. Suicide. Note. Mental illness. Shotgun. Cemetery. 911. Coroner. Those words wound me each time I speak them. Each time I even think them. It’s an actual pain in the very center of me. But saying these things aloud, recognizing their power, facing them head on, is all part of rolling with it.
To me, rolling with it means the stigma of mental illness and the silence surrounding suicide can have a seat. Rolling with it means I tearfully but openly acknowledge the truth rather than comfortably hide. Rolling with it isn’t easy. Sounds easy. Is not easy.
I don’t know what tomorrow will bring, whether it will be truly awful or sort of awful. Eventually, a tomorrow will be good. Right now, though, rolling with it is my only option. Not the only option out there, just the only one that works for me. I have no idea what I’m doing. This is all new to me, and I’m finding my way as I go. Sometimes I muddle through, but sometimes I lose my footing, trip, and roll with it all the way to the bottom of the hill.
Woods Writes 