Post Thirty: Doldrums Denizen

I'm not sure what I want to say, but I know I want to write. I sat down last night and wrote a draft that I never posted. And I never will. Within one night, it has become outdated.

And so we begin post thirty.

I finished two books today, Dideon's Magical Thinking and the short novels book. Finishing books is always somewhat heart-wrenching. It's like saying goodbye to an old friend. Like watching the final episode of a favorite TV show. It leaves one feeling forlorn and lost.

And given that I am already these things, finishing these books weren't as emotional as usual. Though I did cry after finishing Dideon's book. It's been such a crutch, such a relative account to my life. It's helped explain to me things I am continually experiencing but couldn't figure out without explanation. Even before I finished the book, maybe within the last three chapters, I thought to myself that I would re-read it. So with the end of Dideon's story, I feel a little less guided in my grief and mourning.

But also, once I finished it, I laid down to take a nap and instead imagined every part of Zach. His legs. His shoulders. The curve of his back when he was lying down on his stomach. The hair on the back of his palm. I used to call them werewolf hands. All of those intimate details I was intimate with. I was surprised at how precisely I could imagine them, because I've had such a hard time remembering him in general. And unexpectedly, at first, I didn't cry. Instead, I was comforted. I felt like I was home. But when I began to imagine his face and neck, I lost my composure. I find it's much more difficult to imagine his face, his nose, his eyebrows, his lips, his smile.

I honestly am so indescribably sad. Simply sad. I often find moments, more often than not, that bring me happiness throughout each day I encounter, but the truth is, under all of those moments of happiness I am concealing an incredible sadness. How has this happened? "This" being my life as I know it. I haven't given myself much time to ponder that, because thinking about it changes nothing.

And I think I want to talk about this sadness and all the things associated with Zach's fall, all the feelings, all the debilitating thoughts, all the confusion, all the impatience, all the simple tasks that have become so difficult, all the desperate feelings I have that require I be in the presence of someone, anyone at all times. I want to talk about them with so many people. But I feel that I no longer have the right. Here's something from Dideon that says exactly that:

"People in grief think a great deal about self-pity. We worry it, dread it, scourge our thinking for signs of it. We fear that our actions will reveal the condition tellingly described as 'dwelling on it.' We understand the aversion most of us have to 'dwelling on it.' Visible mourning reminds us of death, which is construed as unnatural, a failure to manage the situation. 'A single person is missing for you, and the whole world is empty,' Philippe Aries wrote to the point of this aversion in Western Attitudes toward Death. 'But one no longer has the right to say so aloud.'"

And that's exactly how I feel. I have lost a single person and the whole world feels empty.

The other night was one of my closest friend's birthday. On this specific night, I imbued more than my fair share of drinks and in doing so, found myself later in the evening utterly indulging in my grief. Self-pity cannot be concealed all the time, I suppose. But even thinking about that night, the way I remember it, dark, silky water beneath me, dark, open sky above, dark, enormous feelings inside, I can't help but start to cry again. So much darkness happened in those moments alone, and yet, I felt so so so one with myself. I was letting myself be myself. And myself is, in the daylight, trying so hard to be happy, but at night, with the accompaniment of intoxication & sometimes without, I am the epitome of my misery.

I often used to say, or at least believe, that intoxicated words were sober thoughts. This is true, partly, I'm sure, because we cease to limit ourselves in a way we would normally. Remembering myself that night and relating to her so heavily while NOT being intoxicated leads me to believe that that is how I am at the simplest, most honest level.

But during the day, in the company of others, I am afraid...or unwilling to admit it to myself. Let's settle and say that I'm both afraid and unwilling. So many people reported to me that I was "strong" the weeks after his fall. And I can even be quoted agreeing with them, but my "strength" they saw and commented on was really passive living. Floating through because what else is there? Wailing will change nothing. Anger will change nothing. Longing, wishing, thinking, hoping, will change nothing. There is no price that can be paid that will bring back my previous life. None.

Self-pity. The question of self-pity. I don't even understand that sentence, but Dideon repeated it throughout her book. What is the question of self-pity?

"We remind ourselves repeatedly that our own loss is nothing compared to the loss experienced (or, the even worse thought, not experienced) by he or she who died; this attempt at corrective thinking serves only to plunge us deeper into the self-regarding deep. (Why didn't I see that, why am I so selfish.) The very language we use when we think about self-pity betrays the deep abhorrence in which we hold it: self-pity is feeling sorry for yourself, self-pity is thumb-sucking, self-pity is boo hoo poor me, self-pity is the condition in which those feeling sorry for themselves indulge, or even wallow. Self-pity remains both the most common and the most universally reviled of our character defects, its pestilential destructiveness accepted as given. 'Our worst enemy,' Helen Keller called it."

Is that Dideon's answer to that question?

Either way, it's this very way of thinking about self-pity that almost forces us to be "strong" in the face of death. Forces us to handle ourselves, uphold our honor, in a time when we should be allowed to explore every feeling we're faced with. Isn't that a part of healing? Paying attention to our mourning? Working our way through it? Facing it?

It's this very same thinking that makes me withdraw from others. Self-pity is shameful. Suddenly, I have gone from living a life without shame, to feeling ashamed almost all the time. Ashamed to answer questions like, "So, what are you doing now?" or "How do you know each other?". Ashamed to admit the truth about myself to others. I am, currently, bereaved. I am currently working through the death of my ..what? What word can possibly describe fully, honestly, what Zachary was to me and me to him? I used to and still do struggle with the word "boyfriend." It's so trivial. It does not touch on our relationship in the slightest except to label us as having been in a relationship. When we first began dating, Zach was asking me "Juliana, what are we?" The beginning of our relationship was really ambiguous because I was trying to figure out if I really even wanted to be in one. (In fact, almost a year later, when we had to determine a date for our anniversary, we just guessed the 14th of January. We weren't sure it was right, but it was as right as we needed it to be.) And to Zach's question I said, "We are lovers." He laughed at me. Lovers seems.. outdated, I suppose. And maybe fickle. ("Fickle" was a word Zach loved to use.) But we were lovers and we remained so.

To continue on the thought of feeling ashamed, I feel ashamed in the most normal situations. In communicating with people sociably I fail. This is shameful. In expressing myself honestly, I fail. This too, brings me shame, because I feel I'm often misunderstood.

I'm curious about the way the world sees me now and how it compares to the way I view myself. I often wonder if Zach, if he can be, is proud of me. Or if he's wondering, if he can, "WTF, Juliana. Where are your tears? Did you even love me at all?" I faced a lot of those thoughts early on in this process, because I was for the most part unfeeling.

I can't tell, but I THINK (I've been saying that so much lately, "I think," not "I know," even when I DO know I still choose to say that I only think), maybe, my unfeeling is being undone.

How scattered is this post? I often reread what I've written and realize I left out so many important things because I just write without any structure.

To me, being able to feel what's happening emotionally means that my outward appearance to others will change quite soon. Soon they will notice my languishing vitality. My quiet, wide-eyed hours. A lack of smiling at the appropriate moment. Silence following jokes. I wonder if it's been noticed by others already? Because I've noticed it.

I'm seemingly less hospitable. I'm seemingly less friendly. I'm more aloof. More off putting. More inclined to do my own thing in the midst of others because it's what keeps me from having emotional outbursts all over them. I have a penchant for fleeing a group of joviality so that I can take refuge in isolation. That seems undesirable.

I do not want isolation. I just do not want to face judgement in addition to grief. Is that an unwarranted fear? I don't know, because I haven't tried being sad once in the presence of company. Except for my mom, but she HAS to accept me (right, mama?). Even when others put their sadness on me, cry in my presence, I cannot bring myself to do the same. I fight with all my heart the impending tears. Even when I'm told plainly, without room for misinterpretation, that I may feel free to express my thoughts and feelings to a particular person (whomsoever has told me to feel free), I keep all words tightly stowed away. Why can I not admit it? Why can I not speak freely? Why do I feel so mortified at the thought of being honest in person?

Oh dear. What now?

A list of pacifiers: Stones. NPR. The dock. Company. Trees. Stars. The Moon. Bike riding with a purpose. Climbing. Exploring. Writing. Reading, anything. Learning words. Cloud bursting. Sunshine. Bare feet and wet grass. Water, both potable & picturesque.

End Scene.