Anniversaries and Just Survive Days and Friends
I vaguebooked yesterday that it was a hard day-- a day to just survive through. I tried to think of some pithy feel good silver lining to add to it-- "At least the sun is shining!" But it rang hollow.
It was a -my feet are jelly-lead, my head is blinking batting, my hands weak- kind of a day. It's just bad.
I cried uncle, I gave up on being productive or even functional today. I tapped out. Breakfast was toast and butter. Liko announced that toast with butter is her favorite food. Yesss, nailed it.
My dad called-- we chatted about our gardens, the wild weeds we are eating and the berries we are planting, about my new bee hive and the arbotivae he sent me to grow my hedge along the back chainlink. He mentioned that the old Scottish detective show Hamish Macbeth was back on Amazon. Ah-- that's it. Hamish will get me through the day.
Maile and I settled in. She was giddy that I was breaking my own "no screens before dinner" rule. And there's Hamish Macbeth, the wiry and world-weary young constable in the highlands, smokin weed, poachin salmon, kissin lassies, and catchin the baddies.
As soon as I gave up on trying to Accomplish Things and Be Productive, as soon as I named and blessed the day with a "Just Survive" label-- I felt relief.
It would have been my 17th anniversary. I involuntarily grimaced when I typed that, as though I'd smelled something foul. My feelings and thoughts about it are complicated. And since they are so tangled, it's easier to bin them rather than sorting them out and lovingly winding them into tidy skeins. But apparently, that's not "utilizing my emotional intelligence." *eyeroll*
So, no binning of complex feelings allowed. Fine. And if I sit beside them and glower at them, that's apparently no good either. Because I'm talking about them as though they were a tangled basket of knitting outside of myself, but that's just a lie. They're in my body, and as long as I refuse to give them the place and gentleness they deserve, they will continue to hijack my transport. Heavy limbs, cotton brain, deep furrowed frown.
Naming the day: A Just Survive Day.
Well, just surviving-- that's a task I can manage. I can't make the phonecalls or wrangle the wheelbarrow or respond properly to the emails on my to-do list.
And as soon as I named my only task for the day, I felt better. Well, okay-er. Less leaden, less stupid.
We watched a couple of episodes of Hamish Macbeth. Och, that Lachy Junior, when will he ever learn?? And Och, Good man, TV John.
And then I got up and fed the chickens, because they have to be fed. Liko put on her stompin boots and climbed into the coop to get the eggs. We washed them off in the hose. And while I was out there, I checked on the wild roses I'd planted from cuttings, and the broccoli transplants. All doing fine... The beehive smells sweet, and I am so charmed by those hardworking fuzzy wee lassies. Then I split the oregano and planted it in some nooks and crannies around the garden boxes, hoping it will crowd out the grass, and some in the neglected dry spot by the back porch. Dirt under my nails, boots sprayed off in the hose.
Chop wood, carry water. Getting out to do the chores leapfrogged me into the sunshine and fresh air for a minute. I considered the wheelbarrow and the woodchips needing distributed.
Nope, couldn't do it. I shrugged it off, guilt annoying like a horsefly. Just survive, that's today.
Dinner was leftovers. I tried to do the dishes but couldn't finish them. I tapped out. Just survive! That's the motto! Like a really depressing version of "treat yoself!"
Maile triumphantly put Gravity Falls on-- finally official screen time, yesss! And we finished the last episode. I checked on RJ in his teenage hideaway, with his two snake tanks and a wall of new acrylic paintings and dozens of beautiful green houseplants. He looks drawn and sick but said he was fine. Okay, I love you, good night. What can I do?
Going through the motions of housing a meatsuit-- showered and dressed for bed, brush teeth. Snuggle Liko, listen to stories.
My phone buzzed-- messages of love and kindness from my vaguebooking.
This morning, I looked at the cascade of loving comments on my facebook post. People from all over the world, from many stages of my life, offering love and space and humor and compassion. Most of them didn't know it was my anniversary. Most of them are carrying very different griefs and heartbreaks. But all these people told me to be strong, to be kind with my self, and reminded me they were there for me.
The rest of the dishes are still there this morning, but it's not too bad. I've got my to-do list open, and it doesn't seem impossible.
The next few weeks are going to suck. I mean, they don't have to. I won't MAKE them suck. If they don't, if there are moments of non-suckage, that will be great. I will be grateful.
But these anniversaries hit me hard. Even if I ignore them with my whole self and pretend they don't matter, my body remembers, and rebels, like a bad robot. It forces shutdown and hard reboot.
So, fine. I'm admitting it now. These dates make me time travel to the last few weeks of Matt's life, to the last time we saw him, to when I couldn't get in touch with him, to when I called the police to look for him, to when they told me they'd found him dead. And then spilling forward, as things continued to melt down. What's the term for the molten slurry you make when you're mining for silver? That's what it was. Our whole lives were melted into a virulent stream of lethal toxic slurry.
The dates hijack my body and brain and I am time traveling, reliving it, day by day.
It's not a matter of moving on, of letting it go. Anybody who says I need to let it go is getting answered with a dose of hysterical cackling. This is time travel-- it happens TO me. I don't look at the calendar and think, "oh my, tis the date! Let me call to mind all the miserable things that transpired, ho hum!"
No, it's my hunched body and thick head and sour gut that makes me say, oh shoot, what's the date?
I believe though, and I hope, that by naming it, blessing it, making space for it, this miserable cycle can calm eventually. I am sure that I will always wince and remember and be sick on these days. But hopefully, if I am kind to them, if I greet them with a spirit of ceremony rather than avoidance or self-indulgence, they can lose the jagged edges.
So I'm going to try and name my feelings to myself (even if it is about as easy as trying to hear intervals in some jangling polyphonic post modern choral cacophony) I'm going to check in with myself and my kids, and lower all the bars (know what? Just put them on the ground.)
I'm going to feed the chickens and water the garden, and I'm going to be so grateful for the titanium-strong spider filament web of love and connection that dots between my heart and yours, between old friends and distant family and friends of friends and moms of sweethearts and school buddies and old flames and dear voices.
For everyone that is facing nasty anniversaries, I am sorry.
If your body is hijacked by trauma, I am sorry. You're not crazy.
For everyone isolated and overwhelmed with uncertainly, you're not alone in this.
All these things pass and change and morph. We're in these rough seas together. We can be each others' safety net.
It was a -my feet are jelly-lead, my head is blinking batting, my hands weak- kind of a day. It's just bad.
I cried uncle, I gave up on being productive or even functional today. I tapped out. Breakfast was toast and butter. Liko announced that toast with butter is her favorite food. Yesss, nailed it.
My dad called-- we chatted about our gardens, the wild weeds we are eating and the berries we are planting, about my new bee hive and the arbotivae he sent me to grow my hedge along the back chainlink. He mentioned that the old Scottish detective show Hamish Macbeth was back on Amazon. Ah-- that's it. Hamish will get me through the day.
Maile and I settled in. She was giddy that I was breaking my own "no screens before dinner" rule. And there's Hamish Macbeth, the wiry and world-weary young constable in the highlands, smokin weed, poachin salmon, kissin lassies, and catchin the baddies.
As soon as I gave up on trying to Accomplish Things and Be Productive, as soon as I named and blessed the day with a "Just Survive" label-- I felt relief.
It would have been my 17th anniversary. I involuntarily grimaced when I typed that, as though I'd smelled something foul. My feelings and thoughts about it are complicated. And since they are so tangled, it's easier to bin them rather than sorting them out and lovingly winding them into tidy skeins. But apparently, that's not "utilizing my emotional intelligence." *eyeroll*
So, no binning of complex feelings allowed. Fine. And if I sit beside them and glower at them, that's apparently no good either. Because I'm talking about them as though they were a tangled basket of knitting outside of myself, but that's just a lie. They're in my body, and as long as I refuse to give them the place and gentleness they deserve, they will continue to hijack my transport. Heavy limbs, cotton brain, deep furrowed frown.
Naming the day: A Just Survive Day.
Well, just surviving-- that's a task I can manage. I can't make the phonecalls or wrangle the wheelbarrow or respond properly to the emails on my to-do list.
And as soon as I named my only task for the day, I felt better. Well, okay-er. Less leaden, less stupid.
We watched a couple of episodes of Hamish Macbeth. Och, that Lachy Junior, when will he ever learn?? And Och, Good man, TV John.
And then I got up and fed the chickens, because they have to be fed. Liko put on her stompin boots and climbed into the coop to get the eggs. We washed them off in the hose. And while I was out there, I checked on the wild roses I'd planted from cuttings, and the broccoli transplants. All doing fine... The beehive smells sweet, and I am so charmed by those hardworking fuzzy wee lassies. Then I split the oregano and planted it in some nooks and crannies around the garden boxes, hoping it will crowd out the grass, and some in the neglected dry spot by the back porch. Dirt under my nails, boots sprayed off in the hose.
Chop wood, carry water. Getting out to do the chores leapfrogged me into the sunshine and fresh air for a minute. I considered the wheelbarrow and the woodchips needing distributed.
Nope, couldn't do it. I shrugged it off, guilt annoying like a horsefly. Just survive, that's today.
Dinner was leftovers. I tried to do the dishes but couldn't finish them. I tapped out. Just survive! That's the motto! Like a really depressing version of "treat yoself!"
Maile triumphantly put Gravity Falls on-- finally official screen time, yesss! And we finished the last episode. I checked on RJ in his teenage hideaway, with his two snake tanks and a wall of new acrylic paintings and dozens of beautiful green houseplants. He looks drawn and sick but said he was fine. Okay, I love you, good night. What can I do?
Going through the motions of housing a meatsuit-- showered and dressed for bed, brush teeth. Snuggle Liko, listen to stories.
My phone buzzed-- messages of love and kindness from my vaguebooking.
This morning, I looked at the cascade of loving comments on my facebook post. People from all over the world, from many stages of my life, offering love and space and humor and compassion. Most of them didn't know it was my anniversary. Most of them are carrying very different griefs and heartbreaks. But all these people told me to be strong, to be kind with my self, and reminded me they were there for me.
The rest of the dishes are still there this morning, but it's not too bad. I've got my to-do list open, and it doesn't seem impossible.
The next few weeks are going to suck. I mean, they don't have to. I won't MAKE them suck. If they don't, if there are moments of non-suckage, that will be great. I will be grateful.
But these anniversaries hit me hard. Even if I ignore them with my whole self and pretend they don't matter, my body remembers, and rebels, like a bad robot. It forces shutdown and hard reboot.
So, fine. I'm admitting it now. These dates make me time travel to the last few weeks of Matt's life, to the last time we saw him, to when I couldn't get in touch with him, to when I called the police to look for him, to when they told me they'd found him dead. And then spilling forward, as things continued to melt down. What's the term for the molten slurry you make when you're mining for silver? That's what it was. Our whole lives were melted into a virulent stream of lethal toxic slurry.
The dates hijack my body and brain and I am time traveling, reliving it, day by day.
It's not a matter of moving on, of letting it go. Anybody who says I need to let it go is getting answered with a dose of hysterical cackling. This is time travel-- it happens TO me. I don't look at the calendar and think, "oh my, tis the date! Let me call to mind all the miserable things that transpired, ho hum!"
No, it's my hunched body and thick head and sour gut that makes me say, oh shoot, what's the date?
I believe though, and I hope, that by naming it, blessing it, making space for it, this miserable cycle can calm eventually. I am sure that I will always wince and remember and be sick on these days. But hopefully, if I am kind to them, if I greet them with a spirit of ceremony rather than avoidance or self-indulgence, they can lose the jagged edges.
So I'm going to try and name my feelings to myself (even if it is about as easy as trying to hear intervals in some jangling polyphonic post modern choral cacophony) I'm going to check in with myself and my kids, and lower all the bars (know what? Just put them on the ground.)
I'm going to feed the chickens and water the garden, and I'm going to be so grateful for the titanium-strong spider filament web of love and connection that dots between my heart and yours, between old friends and distant family and friends of friends and moms of sweethearts and school buddies and old flames and dear voices.
For everyone that is facing nasty anniversaries, I am sorry.
If your body is hijacked by trauma, I am sorry. You're not crazy.
For everyone isolated and overwhelmed with uncertainly, you're not alone in this.
All these things pass and change and morph. We're in these rough seas together. We can be each others' safety net.
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