In the nearly two years since my Christina died, I have so often stated that since her death I feel a spiritual void. Life has lost its magical qualities. I have become jaded and my hypervigilence keeps me in a state of fearful anticipation of Life's worst possible outcomes. Optimism has been uprooted and skepticism has taken its place.
Yet, every once in awhile, I notice my former ability to see Life with wonder shine through. What happened today is an example. Yesterday, Brian took Christina's little Ada with him while he did some errands. While they were out, they got some flowers and brought them to the cemetery for both Christina and Cheryl. Ada handles the experience in a matter-of-fact way. But then today, she found a black feather outside which really excited her. SHE sees the magic in Nature. Full of ecstasy with her new feather, she showed it to me, beaming with delight. And then MY former magical way of thinking kicked in: Was that feather a gift from Mommy to daughter? Christina loved black feathers! And I told Ada, "Maybe it was a special present from Mommy!" Her face lit up even more; she agreed, seeing the magic.
True, my skepticism kicked in automatically, after stating my intuitive observation: No. It's just a feather. Most likely evidence that a feral cat caught lunch in a nearby nest. And then the magic dissipated. It's just a feather. Christina is gone. She can't send gifts. But did I sense her presence, even for just that one magical moment?
Someone suggested that I should simply begin to act "as if." Act as if my faith still existed. Read the cards again. Look for the magic in life and tell my skepticism to shut the fuck up. Stop listening to those daunting-yet-rational voices in my head. But I can't. Not yet. I continue to obsessively watch all those silly paranormal shows, wanting proof, but finding none. And let's face it: If there WERE proof, it would've been discovered long ago. Still, I want it. I want evidence. I want to know where she is.
I think of that promise she made, only a month or two before she died. She promised if she died before any of us, and if she could reach us from "the other side," she would. In fact, she said if it were possible, she would haunt the hell out of us! So why hasn't she? Is it because she still exists but communication from the other side is not possible? Or is it because she no longer exists? THAT is the question that torments me.
In my former, more spiritual days, I would have been relatively certain that she, like all people who have passed, still exists. My relative certainty was enough; I didn't need more than that. I knew it was speculation, but I accepted that some things are unknowable. I would've believed that the dead sometimes remain connected to the living (hauntings), but that most move on to a reincarnated life. I still believe that reincarnation is the most likely after-death experience. And I still believe that hauntings are possible. I am open to the possibility. Hopeful even. And that vague suspicion is adequate when I think of those who have passed in general; but it is not adequate when I think of Christina. Christina was my daughter and the mom in me needs to know where/if she is.
So I continue to beg her to haunt me. But not with feathers that can be easily explained away. I want something profound to happen: I want to see her, hear her voice, feel her touch. I want her to move something right before my eyes. I want something to happen that I cannot explain or rationalize. But so far, that has not happened. So far, it has all been bird feathers. No mystery. No unexplainable, irrefutable experiences. I don't care if it scares me; I don't care if it makes me cry. I just want her to reach out and haunt me.
Tuesday, April 16, 2013
Saturday, March 2, 2013
DISCLAIMER
I've been thinking about my lifelong history of writing and specifically, about all the times I was interrogated about my written accounts. I've been asked to qualify, explain, and even retract words I have written. And so, I feel I must add a formal disclaimer so that my readers will fully understand the context in which I write.
My written essays are based on my thoughts and feelings at that given moment in which an essay was composed. It is important for the reader to understand that my thoughts and feelings belong to me and I share them for others to consider. Yet, the reader must understand that even words are often inadequate. As they are read by the reader, the reader injects verbal intonations - which may or may not echo my own. Written words are tricky that way.
Because my written words represent my thoughts and feelings in a specific time, they may not remain forever true; thoughts and feelings change. Keep this in mind.
As Steven Tyler lyrically pointed out, "Life's a journey, not a destination." My words reflect my journey and therefore reflect where I am at a given time. While some of my thoughts and feelings remain relatively constant throughout the journey, some do not.
I remember getting into quite a bit of trouble for having written that I had "slept with my boyfriend." I was only thirteen. The parents demanded an explanation. Yes, I had slept with him...as in "we took a nap together in the same bed." Imagine their laughter when they realized their erroneous interpretation of my words. Imagine my humiliation.
So perhaps it is the fear of future humiliation that I post this disclaimer. I am mortal and will not always be here to qualify, quantify, and otherwise explain what I have written. But my words will linger. Because I will not always be here to defend what I have written, I place this disclaimer: You, the reader, may not always fully understand what I have written. You, the reader, may not always comprehend the context in which I composed an essay. You, the reader, may not have known me well enough to formulate an accurate conclusion about who I am or the thoughts and feelings I once possessed.
As my children and I are quick to point out: Don't jump to conclusions!!
My written essays are based on my thoughts and feelings at that given moment in which an essay was composed. It is important for the reader to understand that my thoughts and feelings belong to me and I share them for others to consider. Yet, the reader must understand that even words are often inadequate. As they are read by the reader, the reader injects verbal intonations - which may or may not echo my own. Written words are tricky that way.
Because my written words represent my thoughts and feelings in a specific time, they may not remain forever true; thoughts and feelings change. Keep this in mind.
As Steven Tyler lyrically pointed out, "Life's a journey, not a destination." My words reflect my journey and therefore reflect where I am at a given time. While some of my thoughts and feelings remain relatively constant throughout the journey, some do not.
I remember getting into quite a bit of trouble for having written that I had "slept with my boyfriend." I was only thirteen. The parents demanded an explanation. Yes, I had slept with him...as in "we took a nap together in the same bed." Imagine their laughter when they realized their erroneous interpretation of my words. Imagine my humiliation.
So perhaps it is the fear of future humiliation that I post this disclaimer. I am mortal and will not always be here to qualify, quantify, and otherwise explain what I have written. But my words will linger. Because I will not always be here to defend what I have written, I place this disclaimer: You, the reader, may not always fully understand what I have written. You, the reader, may not always comprehend the context in which I composed an essay. You, the reader, may not have known me well enough to formulate an accurate conclusion about who I am or the thoughts and feelings I once possessed.
As my children and I are quick to point out: Don't jump to conclusions!!
Monday, January 7, 2013
ETERNALLY TWENTY-THREE
Today she would've been twenty-five. Instead, she remains twenty-three. Forever twenty-three. Life has not stood still and the rest of us continue to age, without her. It's simple and incomprehensible all at the same time. Paradoxical.
Less than two years since her departure and still I wrestle with the unsolvable mystery of it all. Who was she? Why was her life destined to be so short? Was it destiny, or was it preventable? Was it premeditated or was it impulsive? Did she leave as an act of selfless love to spare her kids the inevitable trauma of growing up with a borderlined, bipolar mother? Or did she leave in spite of her kids? And who can I blame? Can I blame the people she called friends? Can I blame genetics for having assaulted her from both sides? Can I blame myself for being so unaware, so self-absorbed, so medicated all her life? Or, is there some sort of lifescript that we must all succumb to? Was it, in fact, the final chapter in Christina's lifescript to take her own life?
Today, my tears are fresh, but sharp like shards of broken glass. I cry the tears I held so tightly in those minutes, hours, days, and weeks after she died. I was in shock and I was in denial. The paradoxical blending of disbelief and acknowledgement tightly wrapped in trauma kept me in a state of other-worldness. I...had become...comfortably numb. But today, Monday, January 7, 2013, what would've been her 25th birthday, the psychic anesthesia has worn off and I cry for her. I want her back. I want this craziness to be over. I want to wake from this nightmare. I want her to be alive again and I want to make her let us love her. Why wouldn't / couldn't she let us in?
Today, she would've been twenty-five. But she's not. Instead, she is now my twenty-five year old twenty-three year old daughter.
Why, Christina? WHY???
Less than two years since her departure and still I wrestle with the unsolvable mystery of it all. Who was she? Why was her life destined to be so short? Was it destiny, or was it preventable? Was it premeditated or was it impulsive? Did she leave as an act of selfless love to spare her kids the inevitable trauma of growing up with a borderlined, bipolar mother? Or did she leave in spite of her kids? And who can I blame? Can I blame the people she called friends? Can I blame genetics for having assaulted her from both sides? Can I blame myself for being so unaware, so self-absorbed, so medicated all her life? Or, is there some sort of lifescript that we must all succumb to? Was it, in fact, the final chapter in Christina's lifescript to take her own life?
Today, my tears are fresh, but sharp like shards of broken glass. I cry the tears I held so tightly in those minutes, hours, days, and weeks after she died. I was in shock and I was in denial. The paradoxical blending of disbelief and acknowledgement tightly wrapped in trauma kept me in a state of other-worldness. I...had become...comfortably numb. But today, Monday, January 7, 2013, what would've been her 25th birthday, the psychic anesthesia has worn off and I cry for her. I want her back. I want this craziness to be over. I want to wake from this nightmare. I want her to be alive again and I want to make her let us love her. Why wouldn't / couldn't she let us in?
Today, she would've been twenty-five. But she's not. Instead, she is now my twenty-five year old twenty-three year old daughter.
Why, Christina? WHY???
Monday, December 17, 2012
LIVIN' ON THE EDGE
After what happened in Newtown, Connecticut on Friday, December 14, 2012, I believe we are livin' on the edge. Change is inevitable; our nation has been shaken - but will we wake up? It seems to me we will go in either of two possible directions.
If we are smart and begin to apply all that we know, we will make two critical changes. First, we will begin to educate the public about mental health and mental illness and we will begin to educate the public about warning signs that indicate potential mental health emergencies. We will speak boldly about the often preventable causes of mental illness and we will stop creating the situations that cause extreme psychological unhappiness. That means we will no longer value and glamorize violence. Hurtful behavior will be defined and will be heavily frowned upon. Mental health services will become more readily available. Emergency mental health centers will be available in all communities, just as medical emergency rooms are readily available. And we will use these services as a gateway to recovery and health.
If we are smart, we will finally begin to strictly regulate weapons, but we will also downplay their appeal. Firearms will be associated with old, outdated, less-educated perspectives. We will pride ourselves on our progressive, educated, and peace-loving values, rather than our ability to inflict carnage. We will value safety, happiness, peace, and the ability to get along. Instead of looking out for number one, we will value the integrity of the community. Prisons will not be used to warehouse the mentally ill. Prisons will be use to rehabilitate those who are salvageable, leaving only the most severely damaged and irreparable individuals to be kept separate.
But my fear is that we will take the other direction. My fear is that we as a nation still value the Wild West mindset and disregard all that we have learned about human development. My fear is that rather than strive toward rational living, we will instead create locked and gated schools and communities and will consider arming everyone so that those with the biggest weapons and the most artillery will reign supreme. Strength and domination will be more valued than intelligent humanity.
So we are at a crossroads, it seems. Will we be smart enough to walk away from the old, outdated, inferior ways of the past, and return to an age of Darkness? Or will we finally begin to take a step into a new way, a better way, a more peaceful, loving and humane way? Will we gather the courage to lead the world toward a more intelligible way of life and make history? Or will the history we create involved more episodes of unspeakable violence against innocent people and children?
Twenty children died Friday and many more witnessed what no one should ever have to see. How are we, as Americans, any better than other countries in the world that we criticize when events like what happened in Connecticut happen simply because we have created an environment that values violence and that chooses to remain uninformed about the causes and treatments for mental illnesses? How dare we think ourselves to be superior when in fact, our culture is becoming more barbaric every day? We have the power to draw the line and collectively shout out "enough" - and then set about creating and valuing something so much better.
So I propose this: America, what do we want? What kind of world do we want to create for our children? And then, how do we set about putting those ideals into actual practice. We CAN do it. We can lead the way and rise above this outdated system that overlooks our poor, that ignores all we have learned, and that continues to value violence over compassion and we can instead begin to value compassion, unity, education, and strong communities. We can begin to value both physical and mental health. And most of all, we can walk away from what no longer serves us. It is, after all, the 21st century.
If we are smart and begin to apply all that we know, we will make two critical changes. First, we will begin to educate the public about mental health and mental illness and we will begin to educate the public about warning signs that indicate potential mental health emergencies. We will speak boldly about the often preventable causes of mental illness and we will stop creating the situations that cause extreme psychological unhappiness. That means we will no longer value and glamorize violence. Hurtful behavior will be defined and will be heavily frowned upon. Mental health services will become more readily available. Emergency mental health centers will be available in all communities, just as medical emergency rooms are readily available. And we will use these services as a gateway to recovery and health.
If we are smart, we will finally begin to strictly regulate weapons, but we will also downplay their appeal. Firearms will be associated with old, outdated, less-educated perspectives. We will pride ourselves on our progressive, educated, and peace-loving values, rather than our ability to inflict carnage. We will value safety, happiness, peace, and the ability to get along. Instead of looking out for number one, we will value the integrity of the community. Prisons will not be used to warehouse the mentally ill. Prisons will be use to rehabilitate those who are salvageable, leaving only the most severely damaged and irreparable individuals to be kept separate.
But my fear is that we will take the other direction. My fear is that we as a nation still value the Wild West mindset and disregard all that we have learned about human development. My fear is that rather than strive toward rational living, we will instead create locked and gated schools and communities and will consider arming everyone so that those with the biggest weapons and the most artillery will reign supreme. Strength and domination will be more valued than intelligent humanity.
So we are at a crossroads, it seems. Will we be smart enough to walk away from the old, outdated, inferior ways of the past, and return to an age of Darkness? Or will we finally begin to take a step into a new way, a better way, a more peaceful, loving and humane way? Will we gather the courage to lead the world toward a more intelligible way of life and make history? Or will the history we create involved more episodes of unspeakable violence against innocent people and children?
Twenty children died Friday and many more witnessed what no one should ever have to see. How are we, as Americans, any better than other countries in the world that we criticize when events like what happened in Connecticut happen simply because we have created an environment that values violence and that chooses to remain uninformed about the causes and treatments for mental illnesses? How dare we think ourselves to be superior when in fact, our culture is becoming more barbaric every day? We have the power to draw the line and collectively shout out "enough" - and then set about creating and valuing something so much better.
So I propose this: America, what do we want? What kind of world do we want to create for our children? And then, how do we set about putting those ideals into actual practice. We CAN do it. We can lead the way and rise above this outdated system that overlooks our poor, that ignores all we have learned, and that continues to value violence over compassion and we can instead begin to value compassion, unity, education, and strong communities. We can begin to value both physical and mental health. And most of all, we can walk away from what no longer serves us. It is, after all, the 21st century.
Thursday, December 13, 2012
EXISTENTIAL ANGST
I really thought I was done with the existential issues that we all wrestle with. As I approached my forties, I felt comfortable with mortality. I did not fear death - just a premature or traumatic death. I viewed death as a magical mystery that we all must fact, and felt comfortable knowing that someday, I would be...finished.
Now, not so much. In fact, when Christina left, I feel like she took my magical view of Life with her. Suddenly, the magic was gone and I was left with a fear of death. Now, I fear my own death, and I fear everyone else's death too. I fear it and I am angered by it. I resent mortality. One lifetime is not nearly long enough, and death is so final, so absolute, and so...unpredictable. There is no way to know when it will arrive. And worst of all, there is no way to confirm what happens...after.
It took so long after Christina died to fully comprehend that she would not be coming back. Even now, it doesn't seem quite real. And I find myself wondering where she is...IF she is. And I think of my grandmother - and how the untimely death of her mother kept her grieving her whole life. I understand now how a tragic death can cause a person to be forever changed. Like a pedal note, the pain lingers...
I don't think there is a day that goes by that I don't contemplate my own mortality. I wonder, with much sadness and anxiety, what will become of my belonging or how my children will cope without me. I think about my mom, as I see her aging, and fear the day she takes her last breath. Death. It's not right. It's not fair.
I am angry too that I cannot do what most people do and take comfort in unproven beliefs. I WANT to believe that I will see Christina again. I desperately WANT to believe that my grandmother was reunited with her mother when my grandmother died. I wish I could take comfort in thinking that when I die, I will be with those who have gone before me and that as time passes, my surviving loved ones will join me. But I can't. I just can't. I have no proof and it seems so unlikely. Why can't I just believe the stories? Why can't I take that leap of faith and then revel in the comfort and security that eternity can and will be blissful? I want to...but it escapes me. I just can't. Death is the end. That's what I've seen. Christina was here - and now she's not. She promised: She said that if it were possible to communicate from the other side, she would. And that has not happened. So, either that means that it is not possible to communicate from beyond death, or she has chosen to NOT communicate to me, or it could mean that she simply does not exist any more. Really, any of those potential reasons are equally likely I suppose. But the one that stands out to me is that Christina gone. She was here and now she is not. And that angers me.
Now, not so much. In fact, when Christina left, I feel like she took my magical view of Life with her. Suddenly, the magic was gone and I was left with a fear of death. Now, I fear my own death, and I fear everyone else's death too. I fear it and I am angered by it. I resent mortality. One lifetime is not nearly long enough, and death is so final, so absolute, and so...unpredictable. There is no way to know when it will arrive. And worst of all, there is no way to confirm what happens...after.
It took so long after Christina died to fully comprehend that she would not be coming back. Even now, it doesn't seem quite real. And I find myself wondering where she is...IF she is. And I think of my grandmother - and how the untimely death of her mother kept her grieving her whole life. I understand now how a tragic death can cause a person to be forever changed. Like a pedal note, the pain lingers...
I don't think there is a day that goes by that I don't contemplate my own mortality. I wonder, with much sadness and anxiety, what will become of my belonging or how my children will cope without me. I think about my mom, as I see her aging, and fear the day she takes her last breath. Death. It's not right. It's not fair.
I am angry too that I cannot do what most people do and take comfort in unproven beliefs. I WANT to believe that I will see Christina again. I desperately WANT to believe that my grandmother was reunited with her mother when my grandmother died. I wish I could take comfort in thinking that when I die, I will be with those who have gone before me and that as time passes, my surviving loved ones will join me. But I can't. I just can't. I have no proof and it seems so unlikely. Why can't I just believe the stories? Why can't I take that leap of faith and then revel in the comfort and security that eternity can and will be blissful? I want to...but it escapes me. I just can't. Death is the end. That's what I've seen. Christina was here - and now she's not. She promised: She said that if it were possible to communicate from the other side, she would. And that has not happened. So, either that means that it is not possible to communicate from beyond death, or she has chosen to NOT communicate to me, or it could mean that she simply does not exist any more. Really, any of those potential reasons are equally likely I suppose. But the one that stands out to me is that Christina gone. She was here and now she is not. And that angers me.
Wednesday, October 3, 2012
EXISTENTIAL REFLECTIONS
Since the day my youngest daughter took her life nearly 17 months ago, I have struggled with the "WHY" of it all. Clinically and intellectually, I know why: untreated mental illness - probably bipolar and/or borderline personality disorder - but never formally diagnosed or treated. Today I was reading Viktor Frankl's book, "Man's Search for Meaning," and he quoted Nietzsche: "He who has a WHY to live for can bear with almost any HOW." It struck me painfully to think that my baby girl had "no WHY to live for": Not me, not her father, not her siblings, not her partner, not her own goals...but most of all, not her then 3 and 4 year old children. How could that be??
I posted that tonite in a Facebook group for suicide survivors. It's an agonizing realization, that even her own children were not enough to keep her here.
I realize her mental illness resulted in cognitive distortions, but it still hurts to think that she preferred a permanent vacation to a lifetime with her children. It hurts to think that she must've thought they'd be better off without her - an excruciating thought for a mother to have. But most of all, I hurt on behalf of her children who will one day pose the same question: "Wasn't I enough to keep you here, Mom?"
There were times in my life when I felt so completely overwhelmed that ending my own life crossed my mind; but just as quickly, I thought of my kids...and thinking of them kept me here. I can't comprehend her level of detachment...except that perhaps the fourteen months she spent in CCDOC is to blame for that detachment. Still, when I think of the night she returned home, I felt convinced that she'd never leave those kids again; I felt convinced that all would be well...but a year later, she was gone. A year later, she CHOSE to be gone. And that hurts. It hurts knowing that she made that choice, whether it was planned or impulsive (and we'll never know for sure which it was), she left without giving a second thought to her kids.
Seventeen months later, and I still cry as if it just happened. I still cry because I empathically feel a portion of what she must have felt; and I cry empathically for the emotional pain her children will face as they continue to understand more and more of who their mother was and what she did.
Yes, it is my children and my grandchildren, and HER children that give me the "why" I need to continue with my life. They are not my only "why's" but they are the primary reason why I want to be here.
I posted that tonite in a Facebook group for suicide survivors. It's an agonizing realization, that even her own children were not enough to keep her here.
I realize her mental illness resulted in cognitive distortions, but it still hurts to think that she preferred a permanent vacation to a lifetime with her children. It hurts to think that she must've thought they'd be better off without her - an excruciating thought for a mother to have. But most of all, I hurt on behalf of her children who will one day pose the same question: "Wasn't I enough to keep you here, Mom?"
There were times in my life when I felt so completely overwhelmed that ending my own life crossed my mind; but just as quickly, I thought of my kids...and thinking of them kept me here. I can't comprehend her level of detachment...except that perhaps the fourteen months she spent in CCDOC is to blame for that detachment. Still, when I think of the night she returned home, I felt convinced that she'd never leave those kids again; I felt convinced that all would be well...but a year later, she was gone. A year later, she CHOSE to be gone. And that hurts. It hurts knowing that she made that choice, whether it was planned or impulsive (and we'll never know for sure which it was), she left without giving a second thought to her kids.
Seventeen months later, and I still cry as if it just happened. I still cry because I empathically feel a portion of what she must have felt; and I cry empathically for the emotional pain her children will face as they continue to understand more and more of who their mother was and what she did.
Yes, it is my children and my grandchildren, and HER children that give me the "why" I need to continue with my life. They are not my only "why's" but they are the primary reason why I want to be here.
Monday, August 6, 2012
NIGHTS LIKE THIS
August, September, and October are my favorite months of the year here in the Midwest. Summer has reached its abundance and already the Sun is beginning to shift. The crickets chirp throughout the night and nights are often cool enough for open windows. The sounds of the crickets and the occasional freight train in the distance stirs memories and feelings of my earliest years. The nostalgic part of me revels in in. And yet...
And yet, all of Nature's whispers from the past haunt me. I am reminded of my mortality, and I resent it. I fear it. I fear death. I feel like I am running out of time, and indeed I am.
Still, I treasure the night...the silence and the solitude. It is the only time I feel like I have arrived into the time of my life I once looked forward to: my kids are grown; my time is my own.
Twist of fate. Since Christina died, I feel more compelled to mother: my grown children AND my grandchildren. But then the paradoxical desire for solitude. I want my solitude so that I can enjoy each of my grandchildren, one at a time, so that I can indulge in their unique individuality. Instead, I get them in bunches where they become, in my eyes, "the kids." And that's not fair. It's not fair to them and it's not fair to me. But with two grandchildren living in my household (or, do I live in their household), I am never afforded the privilege of experiencing them at my discretion, one at a time. And I resent that.
And another freight train blows its whistle as it approaches and I am reminded, painfully, that life is short. There is no time for resentment, frustration, and sadness. And yet, tonight (and lately), I am consumed by those three Fates.
Tonight, I struggle with the profound sadness of losing Christina and unsuccessfully fight back the tears. I don't want to repeat mistakes and build regrets. I want to enjoy the moments of life. But I can't. Instead, I see just the demands: dishes that need to be done, towels that need to be washed - and then folded and put away, and all the other endless mundane stuff associated with maintaining an orderly home environment. My resentment...it's also about wanting to play. I just want to play. I want to feel the way I did when I was a child...when there were minimal demands on my time. Each day was a journey of spontaneous activities. Today, each day begins with a To-Do List...and fatigue.
Tonight I feel the anxious pain of dissatisfaction. I love the people in my life...my family, my tribe, my clan. But I resent my lack of solitude, my lack of quiet, my lack of personal space. Surely they must all sense that.
I am running out of time. Still, as I have for decades, I continue to fantasize about a sacred place, all my own. I continue to long for something that is uniquely mine. And I fear going to my grave having never achieved it.
So tonight, I remind myself that above all, I must be firm in my authenticity. I must simply give in to being who I am, rather than feel compelled to meet everyone else's needs and wants. So what, that I sleep throughout the day and am most awake through the night hours? So what?! It's who I am, right now. I cannot be what I am not. I have learned to trust my gut, but lately I've been ignoring that inner voice. More frustration and resentment results. So tonight, I remind myself and encourage myself to just BE. This is ME, like it or not.
And yet, all of Nature's whispers from the past haunt me. I am reminded of my mortality, and I resent it. I fear it. I fear death. I feel like I am running out of time, and indeed I am.
Still, I treasure the night...the silence and the solitude. It is the only time I feel like I have arrived into the time of my life I once looked forward to: my kids are grown; my time is my own.
Twist of fate. Since Christina died, I feel more compelled to mother: my grown children AND my grandchildren. But then the paradoxical desire for solitude. I want my solitude so that I can enjoy each of my grandchildren, one at a time, so that I can indulge in their unique individuality. Instead, I get them in bunches where they become, in my eyes, "the kids." And that's not fair. It's not fair to them and it's not fair to me. But with two grandchildren living in my household (or, do I live in their household), I am never afforded the privilege of experiencing them at my discretion, one at a time. And I resent that.
And another freight train blows its whistle as it approaches and I am reminded, painfully, that life is short. There is no time for resentment, frustration, and sadness. And yet, tonight (and lately), I am consumed by those three Fates.
Tonight, I struggle with the profound sadness of losing Christina and unsuccessfully fight back the tears. I don't want to repeat mistakes and build regrets. I want to enjoy the moments of life. But I can't. Instead, I see just the demands: dishes that need to be done, towels that need to be washed - and then folded and put away, and all the other endless mundane stuff associated with maintaining an orderly home environment. My resentment...it's also about wanting to play. I just want to play. I want to feel the way I did when I was a child...when there were minimal demands on my time. Each day was a journey of spontaneous activities. Today, each day begins with a To-Do List...and fatigue.
Tonight I feel the anxious pain of dissatisfaction. I love the people in my life...my family, my tribe, my clan. But I resent my lack of solitude, my lack of quiet, my lack of personal space. Surely they must all sense that.
I am running out of time. Still, as I have for decades, I continue to fantasize about a sacred place, all my own. I continue to long for something that is uniquely mine. And I fear going to my grave having never achieved it.
So tonight, I remind myself that above all, I must be firm in my authenticity. I must simply give in to being who I am, rather than feel compelled to meet everyone else's needs and wants. So what, that I sleep throughout the day and am most awake through the night hours? So what?! It's who I am, right now. I cannot be what I am not. I have learned to trust my gut, but lately I've been ignoring that inner voice. More frustration and resentment results. So tonight, I remind myself and encourage myself to just BE. This is ME, like it or not.
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