Traveling down some
old abandoned road
full of potholes and
crooked fenceposts,
looking for a sign,
a sign that says Hope.
somebody, somebody
throw me a rope!
--Namoli Brennet
Yesterday a neighbor who doesn't know me well told me how good I looked, and how well I was doing after my parents' deaths, and it must be nice to feel normal again, now that they'd been dead a couple of months.
I looked at her for a minute, while I ran her words through my head again. I was wearing an oversized, sweaty tee shirt, with shorts two sizes too big, knew I have deep dark circles under my eyes, and wanted to say, "You GD liar." I also wanted to say, "How the f*ck do you know how I'm doing." and "I can't even remember what normal is anymore." Instead, I said, "Thank you, have a nice walk." And walked around the corner of the house, just too tired for the briefest of conversations.
Some people just don't get it, and there is no point in trying to explain. Mourning does not stop six weeks after death. Mourning goes on as long as it goes on, and my pain and anger have not abated at all yet. I know they will, but in their own time, not mine.
Meanwhile I am so discombobulated that I knock into furniture, I drop and break glasses, I struggle with insomnia, I'm not reading my newspaper or watching television, I stare off into space a lot, I forget to eat, or eat too much, and I know all this is within normal limits and temporary.
And when the pain hits big time, I go out to the back steps and cry and cry and cry and moan and even yell. My neighbors are a little shaken by this, but I explained that for 58 years I held many emotions in, because my parents were the stiff upper lip type, and I did my best to be that way, too. Now, somehow I am freer to let go, to wail if I want, to sob and scream and carry on like a madwoman, when I need to.
I am doing many of the right things. I see a therapist weekly, I've been to Hospice to talk to a grief counselor, and have signed up for a six week course for adults who have lost a parent, starting September 15th. I don't, of course, have friends who I can call when I feel like cutting to let the pain out, or want to just get in my car and drive as far as my credit cards will let me (I do like to travel).
I am actually glad the summer is over-I didn't do any summer activities, like go to the beach, or swim in a pool. I have spent most of my energy the last couple of weeks by attempting to clear out a garden area that had been abandoned ten years ago-hard labor to tire me out, to fill my time.
Unfortunately, September brings my birthday, on next Thursday, the 11th. Not an particularly auspicious day, and one on which I will miss my mother enormously. She always sent the best cards, and her gifts, usually Native American jewelry, were always carefully picked to tickle my fancy. Even Meg is too broke to give me a gift this year. (They are fixing up their house to sell it and are truly struggling.)
On the other hand a friend is taking me out to play Bingo at Foxwoods, something I done only once before. It is a bizarre twilight zone experience to me, but it will get me out of the house, and only costs ten bucks.
I know you all are out there, but I'm having a hard time even reading journals, let alone IM'ing my pain across the Internet (I hate to IM more than a few sentences), Except, of course in random entries like this one.
I really do hope you are all doing well, and please know I am a strong woman and will eventually be all right.
Blessings, Margo
PS Does anybody have Kas Ridiman's (of Hestia's School for Wild Young Women) new address or phone number? I really need to connect with her.
