Sunday, March 15, 2015

Tired


I'm tired.
Of this.
Of that.
Of all of it.

I'm tired of putting
the butter back in
the fridge. The cap
back on the toothpaste.

I'm tired of putting
on socks when my
feet are cold. I'm
tired of plugging
my phone in when
the battery weakens.

And, no. That wasn't
a metaphor. I'm tired
of the metaphors.

The mind does
funny things when
we feel trapped in
discomfort. Tonight,
I viewed images of
meteorites which had
fallen to the earth.

I've been hoping
a meteorite may
land on me. You
don't need to tell me
how ridiculous this
is. I already know.

It just seems like
if they have to land
somewhere...you know.

I'm tired.

I don't pray for
blood clots or
aneurysms like
I did in the beginning.
I've moved on.
To meteorites.

The mind. My mind.
It's trying to help
me out. Give me some
relief. It still pictures
jumping from high
places when I'm out
walking my dog.
The overpass. That
apartment over there.
That one. Or that one.

Maybe that disturbs
you. Maybe that causes
you to worry about my
well-being. I'm used to
it by now. Rest assured,
I am not suicidal.

I am simply tired.
And I feel trapped.

I've traded those
early days of grief
for something different.
And this new face of
is ugly. Bursts of energy
and lightness,
reassurances to everyone
(including myself) that
things are "getting better."

And then they're not.
They are.
And then they're not.
I can.
And then I can't.

And if I really tell you
of how hard it is, if
I really explain how
sometimes I'm stuck
in bed for hours at a time-
under the weight of
sadness- isn't there
just this little part of
you- this really little part
(and let's be honest) that
thinks perhaps I'm just not
"moving on"? Isn't there
a little voice in your head
that questions how I could
still be this sad? Still?

There must be.
Because I can hear it, too.

I'm tired of it.
Of this.
Of this grief.

I'm exhausted from
the longing.
From the missing.
From the self-
criticisms.
My ears are sore
from the sheer volume
of it all. My hands are
calloused from grabbing
at any and everything
on the way down.

I'm tired of writing
about this.

I'm tired.












Saturday, March 7, 2015

The Tricky Thing

6 March, 2015















Here's the tricky thing:

I'm doing ok. Fine, really. More than fine.
And then I'm not.
I could use a little encouragement here.
No, not from you, my living ones.
I want to hear it from him.
And I can't.

And this, in my opinion, is ridiculous.

Sure, the signs are there,
and I have an abundance of love.
So, what does that make me-
not grateful? There's nothing worse,
in my opinion.

Last night I had a dream I made
love to a man. In the dream I hadn't
particularly wanted to, but I remember
thinking I should "get it over with"-
this physical act with a man who was
not Gareth. There was going to have
to be a first one after. After Gareth.
There was going to have to be a
someone after.

What a pity to be this someone.

He was a scrawny man in a dimly lit
hostel- on a twin bed tucked inside
of a small shop, really. A shop
that sold crystals and earrings
and had in the corner a bed wrapped
in a crisp white sheet for massages.
This was not the bed we used. Ours
(or "his" really, there was no "ours"-
there was no "us") was a twin cot
in the opposite corner.

The shop was closed for the evening.
Perhaps it was a shop by day,
hostel by night. Perhaps it was just
doing what places do in dreams:
morphing between ideas. Changing
without causing too much alarm to the
dream participants. I was not alarmed.

I was not attracted to him, this man.
I felt nothing for him. He was harmless
enough. He meant no harm.
Maybe he had a dead love-person, too.
It's hard to know. We didn't connect
over sadness. Or passion. Or emptiness.
Nothing was there to join us together-
"us" a word reserved for another time,
with another person. I felt nothing.

There was no connection. It just was.

His hair was long and in tangles. He
lacked any discernable scent. He may
or not have had a spattering of facial
hair. His arm muscles were taught and
he did not possess any of the softness
of the body I knew and longed to be with.
There was no belly. There was no vastness.

When my childhood friend Heather
walked in the room and found us there,
I was slightly ashamed. I covered myself
and explained that this- this did not mean
anything."No offense," I said to the man,
and he nodded. "I'm just getting it over
with." We all understood.
I was not defensive. I felt nothing.

How empty.

Here's the tricky thing:

Last Wednesday was the year
anniversary of Gareth's death.

The air had a holiday feeling,
like Christmas or Thanksgiving.
I was shrouded in gratitude, and
if not happiness, certainly contentment.
Everything seemed clear, including
this loss. I celebrated with his
family via short text messages
and long video clips. It was a
good day.

Here's the tricky thing:

Last night I wasn't sure how
I can continue under the weight
of this. This morning I wasn't
sure I could get out of bed.

Things are better. I am happier.
I go days and even the better part
of weeks without crying. I really,
truly, see the bigger picture, and
I am through the worst of it.

I can do it, and I am doing it.
And then I can't.

Here's the tricky thing:

I lost a family member in the
casualty of grief. I am not met
at the airport. I am not hugged
goodbye when I again leave.
I am avoided and I am resented.
I am an unwanted presence.
I am selfish. I brought this on.
I want to be angry and hurt,
but I haven't the energy for it.
I can't repair when I'm in disrepair.
Under the hurt is hurt. I'm too
tired to unravel it. To right the
furniture. To hold out the olive
branch. I lost and lost again.

Here's the tricky thing:

In year 2 the grief goes underground.
The shades get pulled down on it.
The dark clothes go to the
back of the closet. All of the
frozen lasagnes have been eaten.

In year 2 when you "just can't,"
you're lazy, instead of grieving.
You're selfish instead of heartbroken.
You're holding onto it instead of
in the throws of it. You're stuck
instead of but-of-course, didn't-you-
hear?, she-just-lost-someone-close-
to-her. In year 2, things are different.

It takes a serious gumption to
step up and admit that it's still hard
when the grass has long grown over
the once-fresh grave. It takes balls
to say that, yes, things get immeasurably
better and days are full of joy, and
then it comes back- the heaviness.
The feeling like it's a bit too much.

And the tricky thing is that
I'm not sure I have either.


Tuesday, March 3, 2015

To Shakespeare, on the Year Anniversary of Going to See My Love for the Last Time

To Shakespeare, on the Year Anniversary
of Going to See My Love for the Last Time

I searched tonight through your sonnets
as though you had written me the code years
before to crack the mystery of what-is-this-inside.
A Shakespearean horoscope in reverse.
I thought you could scratch this itch of loss.

Where are you when I need you, William, or
is it Will, or what did your lover call you when
kissing your eyelids at night when the moon
illuminated your lashes? You've always echoed
back to me experiences of love or wonder or
feelings of loss. Tonight your words ring empty.

Your well-metered lines of loss and love
impress me, no doubt. But no where in there
do you speak of what it's like to feel cured
of grief, setting fire to action again: teaching,
laughing, running, reading, connecting-
and then suddenly finding yourself unable
to comprehend a simple text message or
lift a cup of long-awaited tea to your lips.

You do not write of tea going cold and
friends' messages left unanswered. Damn
you and your beautiful words. I need you.

Where is your sonnet woven from your
thoughts on the anniversary of the death of
your love? I want to read about your despair,
your experience, softened by centuries between
us. I need something to soften the blow.

This past year I ripped open my loss and
spread its slime across my face, my hair,
my eyes, my mouth. I vomited and dry-heaved
words of loss and pushed them hard into my
computer screen. My mind has grown tired
from a full attack sensory replay of those days
from February 28th until March 4th and the
few days that followed. Today I hit stop.

Do you see now? I need to read your
words to keep me from writing my own.
I will not write about it today. I will not
so much as think about it today. Please.
Help me give myself a fucking break. Help
me keep in the words that want to come
out and are not welcome here. Not today.

beard                empty     bracelet
                   beeping       dry
      black plastic             green
crisp                tube          speakers
          warm             chest
    sound           waiting      hallway
 call            lips            torn
      backpack           wallet       sorry
holes           washing      blood
       embrace           bear
    hands         lights      elevator
           heels         today
not today

                 not today
                                    not today