I imagined myself a scout. More specifically and most frequently, an Indian scout (in the vernacular of my youth). I spent countless hours on my faithful steed (lime green banana seat bike), riding to the outer limits of my territory—Vern and Beulah’s corner, Cornelius’s stop sign, and Rodney and Donna’s house—looking for danger. My steed and I thrilled at the smooth inside edge of the curve closest to home, accelerating away from pretend enemies, pedaling for the safety of the driveway. If I wasn’t scouting on my steed, I was perched in the best climbing tree in the yard, scanning the distance with my pilfered binoculars.
I loved pretending. It was harmless and entertaining, if a bit weird. Farm kids make their own fun. Now, I pretend all the time and I hate it.
I pretend I’m okay. I pretend I’m strong. I pretend I’m doing better as time passes.
Although not every moment is a bluff, many are. Sometimes the pretending is for my benefit; grief is heavy and exhausting. If I pretend to be okay, my days more closely resemble “normal” days. If I pretend to be okay, I can usually take care of business, at least until it’s safe to come undone.
If I take a break from pretending, if I’m truly honest here, often the pretending is not so much for myself as for the comfort of others. Again, grief is heavy and exhausting. Dealing with someone else’s grief as it interminably drags on gets old. I know. The closer I act to Tonya of Before, the easier I am for people to handle. This is not a pity party or a calling out; it’s just reality. Human nature.
The thing about pretending is it can only last so long. That wannabe scout was really a freckle-faced, light-eyed blonde who’d never been horseback and this middle-aged woman is sad. Horribly, painfully, constantly sad. Of course I’m not okay. My son died by his own hand. How could I be okay?
I can pretend for minutes or hours at a time, just as I could 40 years ago, but the sadness is ever-present. I can repress it, but never erase it. I can ignore it, but not avoid it. I can have a good day with friends and family and treasure each moment, take a spontaneous side trip and go on an adventure. I can finally find some happiness in nature, in my camera. I can laugh with my students.
And underlying all these things I can do, is the sadness I carry. No matter how hard I try, how well I pretend, the sadness stays. This companion sadness is different from the acute ambushes of grief. Ambushes wreck me; sadness just . . . is. I never imagined I could be so sad for so long, but eight months into this life of After, and sad is my baseline. I can’t fully explain this feeling; it’s just how things are right now. Friends who have been here assure me the feeling will ease. It may never go away, but it will ease. I choose to believe them. They are hope embodied, unless they are excellent pretenders. I’m sticking with “hope embodied.” I must.
I’ve tried hard to be honest in my grief; I detest the phrase “fake it ‘til you make it.” So here I am, being transparent about being opaque—about pretending. My pretending makes things easier for acquaintances, but also for me; still, my closest people know I’m not okay. They can gauge how not okay I am by looking at my eyes, my posture, my energy. For them, I can’t and don’t pretend. It wouldn’t work; they’d see right through the scout routine and recognize the little blonde tomboy on a bike.
Woods Writes 