I’m lying here on a Sunday night, wondering about the week ahead. Will it be better than last week? Easier? Please, not more difficult. Will I recognize myself? Will I know my own mind, my own soul, or will I wander through my days―lost?
I walked the Lakeview labyrinth a week ago and, overthinker that I am, I’ve . . . thought about it since then. While I was walking, I was at peace. I knew myself. I wasn’t lost. I wish I could preserve that feeling, learn that feeling, control that feeling. Summon that feeling.
Instead, I keep searching for myself, wondering when (if?) I’ll feel like Tonya of Before instead of this stranger who’s living my unrequested life. It’s a terrible feeling, not knowing myself. I don’t trust my mind (or my mouth, at times). I don’t trust my skills or knowledge, my abilities or instincts. I just don’t know this new me.
Is this how Cooper felt in his last months? I know he didn’t trust his mind.
I’m trying. I’m talking and writing. I’m not hiding my heart or my truth. I’m gradually building a foundation of support beyond my familiar bounds, but I’m also putting myself in emotionally-safe, almost-certainly-fun situations. I’m slipping into the love of my friends and family, wearing their embrace like a favorite fall hoodie. I’m picking up my camera, thinking about photos and the stories they whisper to my eyes. I’m looking for the beauty.
But in the mirror―the mirror on the wall or in my mind―I don’t recognize the Tonya I see.
I keep searching.
For me, part of the search involves reading. Technically, I listen to most books. Not the most English-teacher-y approach to reading, I know, but my concentration still sucks when it comes to reading. I’m working on that, too. So. Much. Work. Mid-week, I listened to Dying to be Free, a book that is aimed specifically at survivors of suicide loss―folks like me. It helped, I think. Validation is good. Feeling less crazy is good. Feeling like I’m not failing Grief 101 is good. Scratch that. This is at least Grief 500―graduate-level shit. I didn’t finish the book with a smile on my face, but the ache in my chest felt legitimate. No longer knowing myself seemed less freakish. Maybe―just maybe―I’m not coming completely undone.
I’m almost two months into year two. According to popular opinion and the mythological grief-o-meter, I should be better. If I’m being honest, some days I feel worse and I’m tired of feeling so damn sad. Because that’s what I feel―this bone-deep sadness. Not the knives of grief that shredded me this time last year, but a heavy, weary pain I’m afraid I’ll carry all my life.
And that’s when I wonder if I’ll ever feel like myself, recognize myself, be recognized as myself. According to that book, maybe not. Is that realization depressing or freeing? Tell me the truth and let me deal with it? That’s generally my preferred approach. That’s why the Moms Who Know are such lifelines; they tell me the truth about surviving.
Don’t get me wrong―I get by. I go to work, do my job, and now stay for rehearsal, but I may barely make it out of the parking lot before the tears start. I may sob as I try to sing along to uplifting songs on my drive home, then drip tears onto my latest crafty project, weeping as I attempt to keep myself busy and distracted. If I don’t―if I let myself stop for too long―I’ll be in bed, staring at the wall, crying and wondering. Even Louise, the nice cat, is tired of it.
So, here I am, late Sunday night, lying in bed and wondering. I’m not really crying, though. Not yet. Maybe later. Who knows. I’m thinking about my week ahead, the books I’m teaching, the scenes we’ll rehearse. And, I’m scanning the week for potholes and possibilities. Do I need to brace myself? I don’t see any obvious issues, but the real troublemakers are good at hiding. Is there a warm and fuzzy wiener-roast fire at the end of the tunnel? Can I return to the labyrinth―source of peace―at the end of the week? Will I still want to return? In the spring, I thought I couldn’t wait to get my paddleboard on Spring Lake. I went five times all summer. Honestly, what the hell, Tonya?
That’s what it’s like, this amnesia of self. I know what I enjoyed, what worked in the Before, but this is the After so who knows. If it helps, I’ll probably try it again.
LIST OF “ITs” THAT HAVE HELPED:
*time alone
*time with family
*time with friends
*writing
*moms who know
*driving with my sunroof open
*knowing there are people I can message any time
*fresh air
*the labyrinth
*tending to stray cats and students
*sitting beneath a scarred, now sacred, cedar, talking to Coop, leaving him a buckeye
So yes, God willing, I’ll get up tomorrow morning. I’ll face the day, and the days after tomorrow. And all those days will be missing my beautiful mountain man. That knowledge, that bowling ball of sorrow, will slow my steps forever. My walk may be a plod.
Woods Writes 