Day 244: Tis the Season

October 30, 2014

Starbucks has their Christmas decorations up already.

I was talking to a friend on the phone today while I was sitting in Starbucks trying to study Korean before class and it went like this:

Friend: What are you doing?

Me: Well...at the moment I'm sitting in Starbucks and I'm kind of bawling my head off.

Friend: Really? What's wrong?

This question still astounds me, by the way. Because...it's kind of the same thing that's been "wrong" for the past 7+ months.

Me: Well, I came here to study Korea and then noticed the Christmas decorations were up. And seeing those- seeing that tree and the ornaments and everything- I just started bawling. I didn't expect that.

Friend: Well...why do you think you're crying?

And if I was astounded before, this question really stumped me.

Me: Seriously? Why? Because holidays are fucking hard.

Friend: What's so hard about it?

Oh, man. I can't tell if I'm going to start sobbing harder or get angry. I do both, actually.

Me: Because I haven't known a Christmas here without Gareth. Because all of the holidays are coming up. Because the thought of them coming makes me want to crawl in a hole. I hate it.

Friend: Well, maybe you need to be using positive language instead.

I think I heard her correctly, but the suggestion is so utterly offensive I have to check again.

Me: What?

Friend: Like instead of saying how hard it is or how awful it's going to be, think of what gifts you have.

And this was the first time I spoke up. 

Me: Ok...people in the place where I am can't hear that. About the gifts. It's hard because it's hard. And no amount of positive language spin makes this easier. I get what you're saying- and before Gareth died, I would have agreed with you 100% and told you about all types of examples where I had done that in my life- shifted to more positive talking and it had a great impact. This is different. This is fucking different.

And now I'm really sobbing. And now I'm feeling like defending myself.  Defending my sadness. It's one thing to feel it. Do I have to defend it, too?

Me: I'm not doing this wrong. I'm not wanting to be in this place. Believe me, if I could not be here, I would. And telling me to change my language makes it sound like I'm doing something wrong- like if I just did it differently, talked about it differently, I'd feel better. It's not like that.

And this is where she heard me. And this is where she showed up. These words are what is needed.

Friend: I know. I'm sorry. It's just...I hate seeing you like this. And I don't know how to help you. I want to help you and I don't know what to do.

And that's what it is, really. People say ridiculous things, hurtful things even, because they don't like seeing me like this. They want to help make it go away. I get that. Completely.

I want it to go away, too.

"What can I do to help you?" is a lot different that "What can I do to make this go away?" I think a lot of times the "What can I do to help you?" is asked when really "How can I make this go away" is what is felt. And the hard part is there is nothing to be done to make it go away. But there are still things I find helpful.

Being able to be in the presence of my grief is helpful. Being able to stay on the phone or remain on a walk with me if I start crying. Bringing me food is still helpful. Who would think that 7 months out making meals is still a difficult task? I'm going to remember this when it's my turn to be there for someone. I never would have thought about it. And perhaps it's just me. But I think not.

Being able to say, "I get how hard this time of year must be. It just sucks" instead of suggesting what I should or shouldn't do is helpful. It's not helpful to be told to "think of the good times" or "think about how Gareth would want me to be happy." It just doesn't help. Telling me to go to an event like a Christmas party because "You will really like it!" doesn't help.

Allowing me to be in this space instead of trying to get me out of it is helpful. There seems to be no rushing this process, and it also looks like it's going to take a lot longer than I imagined it would. Not writing off the intensity of my sadness as being "stuck" or too sensitive is helpful. Getting that this is what it looks like, that this is normal is really, really helpful.

Saying "Your grief is too intense for me right now" or "I have a lot of stuff going on myself and it's hard for me to be around you" is completely ok and helpful. I get that. I appreciate being told that. Doing a sudden disappearing act because you don't know what to say is not helpful.

As it is, I've never navigated through a series of holidays and important dates in deep grief. There is no rulebook and I don't know what to expect. I imagined Christmas Day might be difficult, but I didn't think I'd lose my shit in a Starbucks at the sight of a flimsy tree with red ornaments. I mean I could. not. stop. crying.

I don't know how to get through the next several months leading up to the year anniversary of Gareth's fall. Of his death. I just know that I will. I will stumble and laugh and cry my way through it and I will do it.

UPCOMING HOLIDAYS:

Tomorrow is Halloween.

Here's something else I never anticipated. I can't see people in zombie makeup. I can't see pretend gashes on the head and blood on the face. I don't see a good make-up job. I see Gareth after falling. I see him in the hospital. And I can't stomach the idea of pretending to be a dead person anymore. A walking dead person. Is that crazy? I can't believe this is me. That I'm saying this. But it's true.

November 11th is a somewhat silly but memorable seasonal holiday here in Korea called 빼빼로데이 (Pepero Day), named after stick-shaped pretzels dipped in chocolate. They look like the number one- hence 11/11 as a day to celebrate giving these treats to someone special. It's not too unlike Valentine's Day back home as far as the marketing and ridiculous store displays. Couples everywhere. It makes me feel sick and then I feel ashamed of feeling sick.

November 27th is Thanksgiving.

Last Thanksgiving was a tough day. Gareth was really "off," and I can see it clearly in this photo. I know that look- and it was an off-look. My babe was suffering and there was little to do to calm him. Thanksgiving has tough memories. Good ones from our Thanksgiving in Hadong and difficult ones from the one pictured below. Many friends are going to this same place for Thanksgiving dinner and I haven't decided yet what I'll do. I feel incredibly anxious about walking in there and having Thanksgiving dinner and I feel quite sad and lonely thinking about not being with people on that evening. I'm hoping and am quite sure a solution will present itself. 

Thanksgiving last year at Buy The Book in Daegu with Hadong and Dongguk University friends.

December 9th is my birthday.

This is one day that I have a pretty intense amount of anxiety about arriving. I didn't know that until I was in Korean class a couple of weeks ago and we were being asked to practice a dialogue. "For my birthday, I want..." And I couldn't do it. I felt my throat tighten and I could feel the tears coming and I couldn't do it. I realized then that I didn't want my birthday to come. I don't want it. I want that day to disappear. And this makes me sad. I was a super birthday loving person. I woke up giddy on December 9th! A friend from STL might visit this year- a grief friend who gets this shit more than I ever wish anyone would. So, that might soften the blow a bit.

Sitting across from Gareth at lunch on my birthday last year in Seoul

Then we arrive a Christmas. December 25th.

What can I say. No picking out special things for Gareth. No receiving them. There's the putting on the protective vest but still being hit by each and every little memory associated with the holiday. Today, in that Starbucks, I remembered how Gareth was so impressed by my gift-wrapping skills. I had really gone to town to make his gifts look special. And I was so excited to give them to him. Each Christmas morning here in Korea was Gareth and I in our jammies. Hot tea. Warm hugs. Presents. I can't stomach the idea of waking up this Christmas morning in my apartment without him.

I leave for Bali (on my way to NZ) on Christmas Day. Here's where I'm going to keep my focus and I will try best I can to pretend like this day is just like every other. Nothing special. A travel day to see my friend. An airport day. I want no reminders this year.

Opening presents with Gareth last Christmas morning.

Then New Year's Eve. New Year's Day.

Valentines Day on February 14th.

Sitting across from Gareth on Valentine's Day in Cafe Teo.

Gareth fell from that 4th floor window on February 28th.
He died on March 4th.

Today is day 244.  Please, God, please, Gareth, help me ride the waves until and through day 365.

Day 243: The Women He Held

October 29, 2014

The other night, I was falling asleep.

Or I was trying to.

Many nights, most nights since our last together, I've tossed about. Tried to train my body to sleep uncradled. Pulled my knees to my chest and backed up into the place where he once slept.

I used to be his little astronaut, he said. His star sailor. In our normal state of cuddle, if you were to place us upright, I would be sitting there, quite comfortably in Gareth's lap. At night, I would inch back into this seat, sweep my hair around the back of my neck to the side, and buckle myself in with one of his arms. Prepare to take off. Sleep coming in 10...9...8...7...

The other night, I was imagining such a comfort again. The clock was moving into the 3 a.m. hour, and I was thinking of how quickly I'd be able to fall asleep if he were here. With me. Holding me like he did.

Then an interesting thing happened.

But first I must write about it. That I was not the last.

That in cleaning out his apartment with his family I read in his notebook about the days before his death. His intense sadness. His heavy drinking. His inability to shake himself from the darkness. His missing of me. His remorse. And I read about his "falling into bed" with a new friend when they were both in a state of intoxication and each carrying grief of their own. This friend was new to town and we had not met. She had no way of knowing the whole story. She did not know what she was stepping into (or on) and I tried to keep this in mind as I sunk to the floor and sobbed. "I wanted to be the last one..." I cried into the shoulder of Gareth's mom. "He had every right...He did...but I wanted to be the last one..."

It's a silly request, really. And one way beyond my control. Even after reading on that for him this went no further than a drunken make-out session, one that he regretted days later for concern over hurting his friend's feelings, I still couldn't shake the crippling sickness that would come over me when I'd think about it. Picture it. My love. The lips of my love. Someone else inching back into that astronaut chair and being flown up and away to another place. That was my chair.

Or was it?

That fact of the matter is that it was not.

It was never mine to have alone, and I get that now.

What happened the other night in my severe missing of Gareth was a sudden understanding of what a gift it was to be in that seat. For me. For this friend of his. For the girlfriends that came before me. This woman needed comforting that night. And so did Gareth. And I can say without a doubt, having been there, that I know the comfort she felt in that moment of being held by him. I know what his arms felt like around her and I know what his lips felt like on the back of her head. I know how her hips would have been cradled and how she would have heard the sweet sound of his breathing. And I'm sure if it didn't take away her pain completely, it eased it for the moment.

And right there, any residual discomfort I had about not being the last to be held in this way was lifted from me. And in that moment, I felt a great kinship with this young woman, knowing we had both experienced the gift of being comforted by Gareth.

And then, as if I had known them all, I imagined all who were curled up with him in that way over the years. The first girl he held like that. The one before me. The ones in between. Gareth was no real playboy, mind you. He didn't begin dating until later in life and when he did, he stuck with one person. I was (in his words and through evidence) the most significant romantic relationship of his life, but he had a serious girlfriend before me. And he had other relationships that started and fizzled out. He had crushes and good friends that morphed into something more momentarily and women who loved being in his arms and whom he loved being there.

I was not the only one to be held by him.

I was not the last.

Now I am folded into the memories of these others, and I take my rightful place there. I exist right alongside these women, next to them, with them, in that collective experience and I feel so comforted by that. There is my comfort. A different kind. But there it is.

And the other night, while this was all unfolding quite effortlessly in my head, I got it. I got what I needed to hold on to in regards to this and what I needed to let go of. And I did both.

Day 230: Because I Promised

October 16, 2014

Christine Wong Yap, Unlimited Promise, 2009. Foil, paper, light, thread, shadow.

Because I promised myself I'd write through
this into this right into the middle of it-
Because I promised I wouldn't shy away-
Because I promised, I will tell you how it is.

I will tell you that somewhere in the
end of month 6 I began to feel the straps
loosen. I began to feel like things would
be ok. Because I promised to tell you,

I will tell you, this was a trick. This may
come as a great disappointment. This may
come as a surprise. Because I promised to
write through this, I will tell you the truth.

I will describe the shame that comes when
here, months later, I suddenly find myself
sobbing like the early days. The tissue boxes
I put in the closet have come back out.

I will tell you that yesterday I sat in my car
before class, telling myself that I could do it.
That I could hold it together and go teach. 
And I will tell you that I did. Because I did. But
I will also tell you that after class, I fell apart.

Because I promised I would, I will tell you
that the past two days have felt just like the
first two. Only now, I don't know who to tell
that to without sounding dramatic. Stuck.

Self-absorbed. Unable to "move on." I
will tell you that the missing of Gareth
has ripped right through my middle again.
And I am bleeding out in there. I can feel it.

Because I promised I wouldn't shy away
from writing about any part of this, I will
tell you about how I'm wearing his shirt at
this very moment. The soft blue cotton one.

I will tell you that it doesn't smell of him
anymore. How nothing I have does. I will
tell you about how my hand grabs at the empty
spaces at night, searching for him in my sleep. 

Because I said I would, promised I would,
I will tell you that I think about how any of
you, any of the people I love, could be ripped
from my life at any moment. And I know how

that would feel. I no longer have to imagine.
I think about this. I look at you all and think
about this. Erased. Gone. Snatched away.
Who is next? I make predictions. I am afraid.

I promised I would write about it all. To
help fellow and future grievers. And see,
here, on this particular day, the grieving
ends. Because I promised I would be honest,
I must tell you that it doesn't end. It doesn't.

And the part that really took me by surprise,
the part that I find the most laughable flaw in
the whole system, as it were, is that the grief
does soften. The unbearable becomes bearable.

Until it doesn't anymore. A day several
months out will suddenly and unexpectedly
feel eerily like day one. Welcome back,
despondency. Welcome back, inability to eat.

Welcome back to the place where the
smallest things feel like the greatest chores.
Welcome back. Ah, yes. I've been here before.
And I couldn't quite stomach it then, either.

Because I promised I'd write through this,
straight through it with no regard to my inner
critic, I will tell you that inner critic is screaming
inches from my face. And she's not kind.

And now it's out there and she braces me
for what she says is coming. Friends who
are tired of hearing about this. You'll lose them,
she says. Near acquaintances who find my

honestly not only too much, but incredibly
self-absorbed. You know what they'll be
saying about you behind your back when
you see them in public, she warns me.

If you want to keep people around, you need 
to work on getting a better game-face, she says.
Because I said I would, I will tell you that sometimes
I half-way believe her. That sometimes she makes sense.

I promised I would write about this. And I have.
I have kept my word. It is out.
Please.
Now.
Universe.
God.
Doesn't that account for something? 



 

Day 228: My Ghost Breath Cocoon

October 14, 2014

I woke up with grief stuck to
the bottom of my shoe today,
after thinking I had given it
a clean scrape several days ago.

Now here it was, my left shoe,
sticking with each step. Leaving
a spiderweb of goo at every point
where it met the ground. Step.

Stick. Step. Stick. How utterly
tiresome. What a bore. And
who would want me to enter
their house with shoes like these?

At one point, while stepping from
my car, I twirled, trying to break
the string. I spun and swatted, flung
my leg about. Some people stopped.

They checked the undersides of
their own shoes, breathing a sigh
of relief to find them clean. Others
noticed what they hadn't seen before,

blurry-eyed in the darkness of a fall
morning, they had stumbled from their
beds and slipped their sleepy feet into
similar shoes. Now they began twirling

and spinning, kicking and swatting,
their own strings catching in the wind
and making matters worse. Is it
possible to make such matters worse?

In all the movement, the circular
movement, undignified and ungraceful
as it was, I had spun myself, we had
spun ourselves, into little makeshift

cocoons of grief. My threads were
pink and wispy. I was hideous there,
in the middle of my cotton candy
cocoon of grief. My traveling

cloud of candy floss. "Ghost breath"
my South African friend had recently
explained. "We call candy floss 'ghost
breath' in Africaans." Still dizzy from

the spin, I steady myself against a
nearby tree, my left shoe flung across
the parking lot, its sticky string now
stretched miles long and wrapped

around me. Ghost breath. And I
curse myself for not doing a better
job. For not scraping harder. For not
giving in a buying a brand new pair.

Day 226: Fall And The Scent Of You

Images of fall on the campus of my university.

October 12, 2014

Dear Gareth,

It's funny what the change of seasons does in my mind where memories of you are stored. Here in Korea, fall is announcing itself in reds and golds and oranges against clear and crisp blue skies. For the first time in months my toes and fingers were noticeably chilly after an evening walk with my dog.

"Sorry, babe," I heard myself say. "I'll make sure to put some socks on before we go to bed." Sometimes I catch myself talking to you as though you were here. As though we were both living in the before.  Is this normal? I sure hope so.

My feet turn into two little blocks of ice from about mid-October until mid-March. You made it your job to keep them warm. To thaw them out. You'd rub them between your palms until I could feel the heat rise up to my ankles and then you'd trap the warmth in one of the many funny pairs of Korean socks you bought for me. I had nearly three dozen when you died. I kept a few and gifted the rest to friends back home.

My feet. These icy little feet.

This change in the temperature and this numbness in my fingers and toes brings to mind a whole host of you-related memories that I didn't realize were there. I should be prepared for this. The same thing happened at the hint of spring. In the heat of summer. Each season lights up different areas in my mind and without notice I am back there- in last spring, last summer, last fall- with you. With you rubbing my feet under the covers or in braver moments, offering the vast expanse of your warm back for me to slide my feet up next to.

One time, after a chilly hike on Jirisan, we sat in the car with the heat on full blast while you held my frozen fingers near your mouth and breathed your hot breath on them. You brought them under your shirt, and wincing only a bit, let them warm up near your armpits. "Oh, babe..." you kept saying. "Oh, babe. Oh, babe. Oh, babe."

You kept me warm.

And here the seemingly insignificant memories come. The time we were walking in Seoul and the night chill caused us to stop by an outdoor vendor and purchase matching gloves. Mine were grey with a dark green fingerless component over it. Yours were black and red. Same style. You joked that we finally had "couple outfits," although a month or so later you would present to me identical blue and white winter caps, each with a grey pompom on top. "But," you said firmly, "I'm only wearing mine with you in Hadong. Where no one can see us." I squealed and threw my arms around your neck. Matching hats. Hilariously romantic.

Chilly air. The navy travel blanket you surprised me with because you wanted to make sure I always had something with me in case I got chilly. In times when I forgot it, you offered your scarf- the large green checked wool one you bought in Saudi. I would wrap myself in that scarf and trap in the heat. I slept under that scarf in the few nights I waited for your parents outside of your hospital door. That scarf. I love that scarf.

Once, you had arranged and photographed our jackets, scarves... That green scarf.

Goofing around in a coffee shop. Us. With our scarves.

Chilly air. Out come the boots. The brown suede ones with the stitching that you loved so much. The tall chocolaty leather ones that are in need of some repair. Out comes the furry black slippers. The pink lamb hat that I wear indoors because it keep my head warm and makes me feel like I'm having a party. Do you remember when I bought that hat? We were in Busan, making our way past food stalls and tents full of all types of things no one really needs. Except that hat. I needed that hat. You kissed the top of my head when I put it on and told me I looked cute.

The sheep hat in Busan.

I loved my sheep hat and you loved your meat on a stick.

Chilly air. Out comes the black leather jacket I bought in Changwon the night of Thippy's birthday party. I left the bar where we were, needing a break from the smoke and the threat of the booze and I ducked into a shop and bought a leather jacket. When I returned, you got on stage and read a few poems you had written for me. Chilly air makes me think of my jacket and of that night.

You reading to me that night in Changwon.

And me taking it all in.

I miss you in this chill of autumn. I miss the warmth of your hands. Of your jacket. Of your voice.

Last night I was downtown and parted ways with friends at about 9:30. I walked down by the center stage and sat on a bench facing it for a bit. I wasn't quite ready to go home, nor did I feel like seeking people out. I sat and watched everything around me, like we used to do.

I hear in my head what you would have said. What outfits you would have pointed out. What jokes you would have made. I am carrying on a conversation for both of us because only one of us is still here. It's comforting. And it's exhausting. I don't want to supply your words. I want to hear them.

Downtown Daegu last night, in front of the main stage.

I saw the Body Shop ahead to the left and remembered the first time I came to Daegu, you had asked me to keep an eye out for a Body Shop so I could pick up a particular deodorant for you. This was he Body Shop I found and it was in this shop I held up the image on my phone of the deodorant you wanted and compared it to those lined up on the wall. I found it, and was giddy to return home with what you had requested.

I got up from the bench last night and walked past The Body Shop, briefly looking in the window. A few doors down I saw the Olive Young store where we ducked in to sniff all types of perfumes and colognes. You had really liked the CK One spray and when you weren't looking, I made a sneak purchase and gifted it to you moments later on the street. From then on you always smelled faintly of CK One. "Is this too much," you'd ask and invite me to sniff your neck, your chest, your wrists before we walked out of the door and after you'd misted yourself. You were cute.

Last night I walked into that same shop and scanned the cologne section for that familiar bottle. I picked up a little tester strip from a stainless steel container and held it up to the nozzle of the half-empty CK One bottle. One pump. Two pumps. Onto the little paper gripped my right thumb and forefinger. Little bits of the spray floated up and out and around me and there you were again. I closed my eyes and brought the strip to my nose and there you were again. I didn't cry. I didn't feel faint. I just took you in and finally placed the now CK One-scented strip in the "used" container.

I snaked through the aisles of the store looking at beauty products I had no interest in. I picked up and inspected a package of mascara. I considered the skin-tones of the foundation sample tray. I thought about buying the special dark chocolate wafers only sold in this store and decided against it. And I left.

A few blocks later, a reached up to scratch an itch on my nose and there you were, right on the fingertips of my right hand. CK One and warm skin. I stopped in the middle of the busy sidewalk and inhaled you there like I had breathed in the scent of you on your green scarf in the days and weeks after you died. I took in the scent of you.

And here in the window of a shop was a mannequin wearing a pressed white shirt, dark jeans, and a grey down vest. Remember how you were on an endless search for a vest like that in your size? You were particular about it. It had to be that grey. That material. With the blue and white pinstripes on the inside. Just like that. "Do you mind if we just stop in here for a minute, babe?" you'd say. "I just want to try that vest on." How many grey vests did you try on in my presence? You never did find one that fit you. "Damn, Korea," you'd say. "Why is everything so small?"

Close. But not quite it.

"That one's not going to fit you either, babe," I heard myself whisper as I stood outside of the shop window, eying the vest. It's true. It was too small. Here I am talking to you again as though you are right there with me.

I imagine the day will come when you're not the most present thing on my mind. And that will be ok. It's not even been 8 months since you died, so it seems everything natural that as I make my way through these first seasons- the first of everything without you- that I'd be thinking of you quite a bit.

I can feel myself gearing up for this time last year. For Thanksgiving dinner at Buy the Book (something I don't think I have it in me to do without you this year), my birthday, Christmas, the trip we took to Seoul, how "off" you were, January, your bouts with drinking, my trip to Thailand, your troubled messages, the unplanned break-up, the spiraling out, the ache, the fall. Your death. I can feel myself gearing up for all of this as though it's going to happen again.

Here's what I'm asking of you, babe. Walk with me gently through this autumn. Direct my attention to the golds, the reds, the oranges against the bright blue sky. Pat the ground during one of my walks and say, "Here. Here, babe. This is a great place to stop." Sit with me and remind me to breathe deeply. Breathe slowly. To take it all in. Show me how beautiful this time of the year is, especially in Korea. Wrap yourself around me when I take your scarf out of my bag and drape it around my shoulders.

In the years to come, I will navigate through the change of seasons with a softness. With grace. But as it is now, I still need you.

I took some odd turns here and there through back alleys last night, and came across this.

Day 221: To Live This Life Well

October 7, 2014

This is the last prompt for a 30-day grief writing course I've been taking. I've been posting the writing here, but behind the scenes there's been something deeply moving happening. I've been part of a daily community of people experiencing and articulating all types of loss, most death-related, but not all. We post our writing on a private site, read each others words with the utmost reverence and understanding, and often leave comments. We sew strength into the stories of each other. We bear witness to these stories. To our stories. To our love-people.

I am a different person as a result of taking these stories in. I've gotten to know husbands, sons, daughters, expected infants, brothers, mothers, husbands, lovers. I've stood with a community and said "fuck you" to a past-trauma that threatened to blot out someone's bright spirit. I've read and reread the words of missing, of longing, of forgiveness, of understanding, of anger, and of profound sadness. I've read about moments of grace. About the softening of grief. About the surprise returns. I've existed with a community and reassured someone it's ok that he/she can't write another word today. Not another word. Please, no more. I've existed with that community when the same person returns and says, "I'm back. And I'm ready to write." I've seen photo after photo of the most beautiful people. Beautiful smiles. The people for whom we mourn. My capacity to understand and be understood is greater because of this course. Gareth loved me with everything he had. And the people in this shared writing experience love me, too.

In this last prompt, we are asked to reflect on the love of others. It's never slipped my mind how lucky I am both to have been loved in the way Gareth loved me and to continue to be loved by the wide safety net of people I have in my life. I am well-loved. I feel it. I know it.

More than this, though, we're asked to explore the idea of loving ourselves. "It's all well and good to draw on the love of others," Megan writes, "to continue because they love you. I wonder if you've found that same fierce love for yourself."

"What would that be" she asks, "-to live this life well, because you love yourself so much?"

Well now. That's a thought.

The whole notion of "loving oneself" can get a bit, how can I say, overly Mr. Rogers' Neighborhood. What makes the idea so uncomfortable for us as adults?

I remember being a kid, maybe 5 years old, and standing in front of the mirror on the back of our bathroom door. I stared at that little person looking back at me in awe and wonder. How beautiful I thought she was! How amazing! These eyes that see. This mouth that moves this way and that way. This reddish-brown hair that I can hold straight over my head. These little white teeth that click together if I make them. These eyebrows that move up. And down. And up again. These ears with their little curves and curls and whoa! I can bend my earlobes! I loved this person. I loved myself.

A year or two later we made one of those acrostic poems in class with our names. You know:

B-eautiful
R-
I-maginative
D-aring
G-
E-ntertaining
T-alented

I can't remember the "R" and the "G," but you get the point. I was still in love with the me that was me. I saw myself as something miraculous, not in an irritating self-absorbed adult way, but in a pure and innocent way that children can take delight in something. I took delight in myself.

Oh, yeah. The golden years. I was feeling pretty damned beautiful right here.

When did the shift happen? Middle school, probably? That's about when it happens for most of us. The first real insults are hurled, both by others and by ourselves, towards ourselves. I questioned my awesomeness. I was embarrassed by any good thoughts I had of myself. And soon, they seemed to disappear altogether.

Suddenly I was a scrawny, flat-chested, overly-sensitive, pimple-faced, prone to sadness teenager and had I been asked to make an acrostic poem with my name, the results would have been very different from the first.

B-oring
R-idiculous
I-nsensitive
D-orky
G-angly
E-ffed up
T-imid

Enter self-loathing. Here before my first boy/girl party.

Middle school. High school. I navigated my way through self-hatred hidden behind a likeable and successful student. Most people I know from back then are surprised to hear how much I struggled then. Funny, isn't it? In the darkroom with the smell of chemicals and the images I captured coming to life under a few inches of liquid, I liked myself. In the moments I chose to sit with someone in the cafeteria who didn't seem to have many friends, I liked myself. I was far from loving myself.

In high school. I could see nothing beautiful of myself.

College happened, and I found my tribe. Artists and filmmakers who played for hours on end with the art studios as our playground. I dressed up. I spun. I twirled. I buried things. I dug them up. I mad bad art. Really, really bad art. And I liked who I was and what I was doing. I caught my reflection in what I was creating and saw bits and pieces of that 5-year-old in the mirror who I was utterly in love with years before. Is she still in there? Am I her?

Feeling good with fellow performance artists in the university years.

Post-college. Relationships. I loved my capacity to love. I loved the fact that I seem to be a truly decent human being. I loved acknowledging my mistakes and trying to make things right. I was evolving. Rapidly changing. Returning to a person worthy of seeing in a mirror and feeling...I don't know...kind of in love with that person.

Half-marathons, more creative writing, spending time with people I love- this was all coming out of a place of self-love.

Pre-move to Korea, and I had never felt more secure. More solid about who I was. The quality people I had as friends were a reflection of how I felt about myself. I "sought higher ground" and befriended people I wanted to be like. Drama was gone. My spirit was full. I was in love with life in the biggest way possible and I was in love with myself in it.

This is where I was when I came to Korea. When I met Gareth. I had truly never expected to meet someone, nor did I particularly think I wanted that. I was happy in this new-found relationship with myself. I enjoyed my own company! What? I was the funniest person I knew.

Orientation in Korea- August of 2012. I had never felt more solid.

Then Gareth. Then love. Then being seen. This person I was, this person I am, was truly seen by another person. And he loved her. He loved me. Gareth loved me so very much.

And OH! how I saw him. How I loved him. How I loved the feeling of entering into a relationship with a solid understanding of who I was. No more trying on different personalities to suit the other.

"This one? Do you like this one? No? Ok...How about this?" I'll be an artist. I won't be an artist. I'll travel. No, wait...you don't like that? Ok. I won't travel. I pray. No I don't. God? Eh..I'll come back to him, I guess. You know. If you want me to."

None of that. I stood in front of Gareth as I am. An artist. A writer. A teacher. A traveler. A profound lover of people. A God-connected spirit. An emoter. A giggler. A dancer. A lover of animals. A physical connector. A lover of Wham and a hater of football. I'm not pretending anymore. This is who I am. This is the person I've fallen in love with.

Ah...that love.

And he did, too. Gareth fell in love with that person. That person that is so clearly me.

And truly, the way to continue loving Gareth is to continue loving me. That person. That person he loved so deeply.

So, yes, I'm human. I had bad days and bad moments. I have flaws and insecurities. I have ample opportunities to reflect on my behavior and make right where I cause harm or do wrong. But this is how I will live this life well- I will see myself as I once did. As a miraculous spirit in this little body of a container I've been gifted while I'm here. I will see myself as I did when I was 5. As a person I was in love with. And I will see myself as Gareth saw me. As a woman worthy of every bit of love he was capable of giving.

Delighting the masses with Philopena, the dog I got a month after Gareth died.

I was worthy of that love. I am worthy of it. I will live this life well by never forgetting that.

Day 220: This Is Not Just Any Story

October 6, 2014

This is the second-to-last prompt for a 30-day grief writing course I've been taking. In this prompt we're asked to consider what it means to do all of this writing as a result of the real fact: "That the words you form are not just any words, they are words that come from the deepest wound. They grow out of the reality of death." And this is not just any story. This is the story with death at the core of it. How do we bow with respect to that, as Megan says? What is the story of the story we're in?

-----------------------

This is not just any story.
This is the story of boy meets girl.

Strike that.

This is the story of girl
traveling halfway across the globe
and meeting the love of her life.

This is the story of boy
traveling the same distance
to find her and do the same.

Strike that.

This is not just any story.
This is a story of boy meets girl.
This is the story of their love,
seen by everyone. This is the story.
1.5 years later boy spirals out.
Girl tries to help.
Girl steps back.
It worsens the matter. 
Boy climbs out of a window
and falls. Three days later, he dies.

Is that the story?

Strike that.

How can I possibly unpack
a story as complex as this?
As rich as this?

How can I even paint a picture
of a love like this? Impossible.

Here is the haystack of your love.
Please, please, find this particular
needle and describe it for everyone. 

I do my best.
I've done my best.

Do you see the warmth of this man
that I loved? Through my words,
have you fallen in love with him, too?

If so, I have told the story. 

Do you feel how I was swept up in
his goodness? How we held each other
beneath every full moon? Do you feel
like you were there with us?

If so, I have told the story.

Do you delight in all things that made
this man real? Can you picture him?
Can you hear his words? Can you see
him holding hands across the table from
me, telling me "You are the you of my words"
and did you not wish for that love to
be sustained? Did you wish that for me?
For him?

If so, I have told the story.

Did you feel- really feel- deep in your gut
the way it ripped me to pieces to draw the line?
Did you get hit with blasts of my self-doubt?
Can you imagine what it is to back away from
your love in the hopes that he will get well?
Did you feel my fear in doing so?
Do you wish to rewind time and see if
there could have been another outcome?
Do you wonder if I loved enough?

If so, I have told the story.

Do you feel like you were there
when I got the call? Through my words,
were you there in those first few days in the hospital?
Were you awaiting the arrival of his mum and dad?
Could you feel his warmth beneath that hospital sheet
and were you with me when I remembered how very
well I knew that body? His body? Could you feel
his lips beneath mine? Feel his face below my flat
palms? Could you hear me speaking to him?
My love. I am here. I am so sorry. I am here.

If so, I have told the story.

Have you ridden the waves with me?
Felt the power of suddenly going under,
being tossed this way and that, without breath?
Finally surfacing and having little strength
to take those small few steps to shore?
Have you imagined missing Gareth in
the deepest way possible? Have you felt
the ache of this? Have my own words
stirred up in you the losses you, too,
have experienced? Do you long for someone?

If so, I have told the story.

Have I given you hope? Do you believe
that the darkest times of grief are puctuated
by moments of lightness? Of grace?
Do you believe grace is there?
Can you feel my joy in these lighter times
and have you taken those deep breaths with me,
looked up to the heavens, and given thanks
for the momentary release from pain?

If so, I have told the story.

I want to tell this story, the story I'm in.
I need to tell it.

It is not just any story, this one.
It is the story of chance. Of passion.
Of deep understanding and deeper joy.
It is the story of risk. Of health and illness.
It is the story of the stories that lie underneath
what we see and what we know. It is the
story of connections and trusting God.
It is the story of death. Of loss. Of gripping
tightly and of letting go. It is the story of my love.

It is the story I'm in.
And it's not just any story.

Day 219: The Afterimage

October 5, 2014

I'm wrapping up participation in a 30-day grief writing course. (As an aside, registration is open now for the next round. I'd highly recommend it if you're wondering what to do with your own grief, new or old, death-related or not.)

We're asked today to think about how we know "the shape, the weight, the being, of the one [we] love, by what others see in [us]." When I read this prompt, a poem by Mark Strand came immediately to mind. I've always loved the simplicity and profundity of it and it's stayed with me for years.

-----------

Keeping Things Whole
(Mark Strand)

In a field
I am the absence
of field.
This is
always the case.
Wherever I am
I am what is missing.
When I walk
I part the air
and always
the air moves in
to fill the spaces
where my body's been.
We all have reasons for moving.
I move
to keep things whole.

-------------

I decided to begin dancing around this prompt, sniffing it out, if you will, by doing an "echo poem" with Mark Strands words.

-----------

Keeping Gareth Alive
(with apologies to Mark Strand)

In my laugh
is the presence
of Gareth's laugh.
This will
always be the case.
Whatever I do
there is some of him with me.
When I talk
my words part the air
and always
Gareth's words move in
to fill the spaces
where my words fall short.
We all have reasons for living.
I live
to keep him alive.

-------------

That feels right. That feels true. But not enough.

How can I possibly detail the ways in which the shape, the weight, the being of Gareth can be seen in me? There are the little things. The words of his that I hear myself repeat time and time again. "Tea is medicinal!" I say, every night when I make myself a cup. That is Gareth.

Just the other day I mentioned something about my "sat-nav" to someone. "Your what?" they asked. "Oh, my GPS," I replied, smiling at my memory of all of the times I drove with Gareth to new places. Gareth had always called it a sat-nav (satellite navigation), and I hadn't even realized I'd appropriated this term.

I've come to appreciate the pure genius of anything with a pump-dispenser as Gareth was always quick to point out how "nothing can improve upon its design." I think of this each and every morning when I push twice on the pump of my shampoo dispenser. He's got a point. It works brilliantly.

These are the small things. The almost imperceptible ways in which his shape lingers near me. And there are the more tangible things. Gareth, from the start, was enamored by my tattoos.

I made it well into my 30s without getting a single tattoo. And then this happened:

A few days later, color was added. A lot of it:

I was single, and had been for some time, and was keenly aware that this- my body- was something I was coming to appreciate as a little vessel for my spirit while I'm on this earth. And I wanted to decorate my vessel.

These tattoos- these markings- were incredibly personal. They felt somehow a symbol of strength I had (and strength I didn't know I'd need.) Gareth saw this. He saw me. He saw me. And he was constantly in awe.

In time, these colors and shapes just below the surface of my skin began to feel as much Gareth's as they did mine. His hands laid gentle claim to them. His fingers traced their shape. His lips kissed the center of each flower. His flat palms held the leaves to my back as if they'd blow away with a strong wind. He was (and remains) the only one to have been so intimate with my decorated self.

The weight of Gareth remains there on my skin. I can feel traces of his touch and the all-of-me glows with having been adored.

This past summer when I visited home, I returned to the same tattoo artist, Amanda Pepper. I had been corresponding with her since Gareth died. I wanted to grasp at the disappearing mist of him and sew it directly into my skin.

I had initially contacted Amanda (for my first tattoo) after seeing a tattoo on a friend of mine. This friend had just walked through the hell that is a cancer diagnosis, chemotherapy, and a mastectomy. She knows loss and she knows coming through it to the other side. At 50-something, she received her first tattoo from Amanda- a series of things my friend loves tattooed across the place where her left breast once was. I admired her. I admired Amanda's work.

And Gareth admired Amanda's work on me. Her lines are delicate. Her designs often whimsical. And I learned during my visit this summer that she often has a habit of saying her version of prayers as she tattoos someone, especially if the tattoo is signifying some time of trauma. She prays for the pain of the trauma to heal, just as after the intensity and pain of a tattoo, the body heals itself. I like this. A lot.

Amanda Pepper's idea board as she was designing a tattoo for me.

So, with some ideas sent to her (a kakapo- a rare and adorable bird from New Zealand, where Gareth is from, a kiwi, and a line from one of his poems written to me) Amanda went about designing something. I knew the size (quite large) and placement (right side of my back) that I wanted, but I really trusted her with everything else.

Not long before returning back home, I received this sketch. And here is my kakapo. And a kiwi with a heart shape in the middle. Here is the Rose of Sharon, Korea's national flower, and the line from the poem: "You are the you of my words." Gareth is all over this image. I scheduled an appointment for the end of my visit home.

Amanda's studio space.

Did it hurt? Yes. But a tangible hurt that would go away was quite welcomed.

We talked a lot. About Gareth. About her dad. About loss. About choosing to go on.

Amanda unexpectedly lost her dad not long ago.

4.5 hours later and finished!

Besides the fact that I've shown it to a few friends, or posting a picture of it here, no one would know this image sits just below my right shoulder blade. It is there, next to the flowers and the leaves that Gareth would study on a lazy Sunday morning before we slid out of bed and made breakfast. It is there in what was blank space, space reserved for him before I knew I needed it.

When the ache is particularly heavy, when the lightness of his absent weight is nearly unbearable, I find myself reaching around my torso in an embrace. One hand rests still on the image Gareth loved so much, and the other rests on the new shape of him. The space of him there on my back. I trace it for him. I love it for him. I behold my marked skin, like he would, as evidence of strength- the strength needed to do this. All of it.

Day 218: What I Really Meant to Say

October 5, 2014

In June I wrote about the weightiness of seeing the full moon each month. (You can read that piece here.) Yesterday, as part of a writing course I'm in, I took that piece and rearranged the words to form something new. (Reworked piece here.) Today's prompt asks us to return to the original piece and select places that can be expanded. Where can we open up a bit? Here we're looking at the craft of writing inasmuch as the subject matter. It occurs to me that Gareth would have absolutely loved doing this with me/with his own work.

I read through the original and this part stood out as particularly thin:
----------------------

It’s interesting to me the things that end up being extraordinarily painful after we lose someone. Some people have difficulty returning to a favorite restaurant or even entire city. A particular song may stop a grieving person in her or her tracks and knock the breath right from their lungs. My aunt recently told me of unexpected crippling grief hitting in the aisle of the supermarket when she suddenly found herself in front of a favorite food item of her daughter’s.

---------------------

The first line is...an uninteresting fact about my own interest. And is it really interesting to me that some things end up being "extraordinarily painful"? Not really. It's just a fact. I then list a few examples, in the most general terms possible. Here was an opportunity to show, not tell. 

Below is that paragraph rewritten, peeking into the corners of what I really meant to say.

---------------------------------------------

Grief sits in my chest like a large, moaning cello.  I’m never quite sure what’s going to reach in there and pluck a string, sending the low, sonorous sounds to echo in the hollows of my belly. It may be a particular place. When I stepped onto the same escalator that carried us out of the underground subway station to the streets of Daegu above, strings were not only plucked, but the bow of remembrance sawed slowly across them. Here we stood and you faced me, one step below. Here we embraced the entire way up. And you are not here now. Long, slow moans of the cello. My insides are hollow.

A particular song may have the same results. Last month, I wound my way up a mountain, a backpack full of water and my own sadness weighing me down. Something about the freshness of the air and the stunning landscape of Korea seen from a high vantage point began to right me. My steps were lighter. Pine needles underfoot softened the way. Then, near the top, I discovered an elderly man resting on a large rock, his small radio in hand. “Starry, starry night. Paint your palette blue and gray…Look out on a summer's day…With eyes that know the darkness in my soul…” and I fell. I fell down to the earth with the sound of you, the missing of you, the unbearable absence of you all taking turns playing the cello in my chest. It played a deep and dark song. Inside I was weeping.

Sometimes I will avoid a particular place, a particular food, a certain route in my car- just to keep the gut strings from being plucked. This year I did not return to the Jinju Lantern Festival, despite how much I love the glow of the colored silks, the fireworks, the floats afire on the water’s surface. I could not go. The cello would play and I wouldn’t not be able to walk lightly under the weight of its tune.  And please, can I just please walk lightly for a few steps?

The sight of the full moon glowing in an otherwise darkened evening sky plucks at the lowest string and the sound reverberates long after I avert my gaze. I don’t just see that moon, that very moon hanging above like a ripe fruit about to drop- I see a spotlight that used to shine on me and Gareth. “Stop searching for him, Moon,” I want to say now. “He is not here.” I want her to power off. To go dark. At least direct her beam away from me. The sight of the moon that was once ours brings the sound of the cello. Pesante.  Pesante. Pesante.

Day 217: The Honeymoon Revisited

I'm part of a 30-day grief writing course.  Today's writing is in response to a prompt.

October 3, 2014

For this bit of writing, we were asked to select something we've already written and do a cut-and-paste of that piece. I did a similar exercise and published it in a post titled "Rewriting the Story" and a surprisingly darker one the next day with "Another Cut and Paste."

For this one, I chose a piece from Day 105. When cutting up words and piecing them back together, there's a bit of a trust process that something cohesive will end up coming out of that mess. And it is a mess at first:

The original piece is about the pain of seeing the full moon each and every month, with its supremely clear reminders of times with Gareth. (Re-read the original here.) 

It took several hours of moving the bits and pieces like a puzzle with no clear shape before something began to show up. And what did was interesting to me- kind of a before, during, and after of the process of the grief softening and the moon becoming not only bearable to look at again, but a welcomed reminder.

I'll post the finished pieces in sections below. There were three.

I.

 

 II.

III.