Most days I don’t get it, wait, many of the days it feels as if the life I live is a dream. It doesn’t seem right. I’m existing but really unsure how or what for. Are we defined organisms created with a need to have purpose or is that just something we inherit, or rather one of those conditioned/learned patterned of behaviors?
Many times these past few weeks I’ve flirted with “that” idea. You know that “one;” The one followed by a coma. Not really the end, nor is it really the beginning of everything, but it’s away, a short pause until, who knows when or what. It could happen, I mean in an instant that’s all it takes, and so to avoid the plaguing thought I take on more things. More instances surface where I can hopefully fill the emptiness that resides; to replace the yearning with “something to do” instead of embracing it with a tear, a smile, or a laugh.
Who would have thought in a million years, her death (mom’s) would have created such a lasting effect? Who would have thought a time would come when I could define a life, with someone else in it? However, it’s not just a “someone” there’s lots of people I know, it’s the assuredness, the identity, the sense of belonging that has been stripped away. What can one do? It’s gone, and you can read every book there is, and it says something about not forming an identity through or with someone else, you are you. Yes, that’s right, but how could you not? Lives are centered on acceptance and my sphere of allowing that to happen is very limited.
Yet, more often than not, the sadness that comes isn’t because I’m wallowing in my self-pity, or have devoted a time to “think” about them, it’s when I take a step, or survey the world before me, I realize they are no longer part of it, and I feel guilty. Where does that come from? I’ve never felt that before? It comes from my understanding and willingness to accept their pain, it wasn’t minuscule, it was real, and it was as real as it will ever be, and yet for awhile I fought with them to fight, then did the “grown-up” thing and said they could go. Yet, even then what choice do I have, except that one. Yet, conflicted with the idea, I feel so much here, I fight so much here why not? Then, whatif there is something waiting, something waiting to be uncovered. Of course, the fear of the unknown always shows it’s little head, and yet I wish I could learn from it, instead I turn away, diving into something else, something more. How long can I do this?
My guess is “forever” until I prove I’m strong enough or is it, weak enough? Despite, the solemnity in that phrase my whole body just sighs. Here, I, along with many, begin a quest a quest that initially began way before we would have known. This journey leads us down paths of light and darkness, choices as our guide and sometimes just pure luck, or lack there of. Along, this weary road, we love and lose and somehow regain those steps rather quickly and walk steady on. Sometimes, for whatever reason we stop to look back from the place we once were and cast our eyes downward at our bare feet staring at the markings of the gruesome road we have traveled. As our glance flirts from ground to the distance we have walked away from, we try to turn around, we try to go back to “that day” to not have to “let go” to not have to “know” the hurt the pain of the moments that brought us to our knees. In our efforts of moving backward, we can’t, we’re stuck with a choice that we have to decide. What will it be? One can continue on the road and just hope the aches will diminish yet life brings about more pain, different pain, that it seems we are not equipped with handling.
Many times, I’ve chosen the just “wait here” time – creating a life as close to the moment of “then” as I can; to busy myself not too far ahead, and not too far behind, yet in that very middle where the ache of both worlds, breaks my heart. Steps ahead send a surge of panic as the words “I’m sorry” want to permeate through the darkness of those days. Steps backward, create a ripple of sadness I can’t explain. A loss, I guess. The reality of death and the visions that accompany that thought.
The road has been walked by many, carrying different weights, opportunities, hurts, pain – and yet there is a uniqueness to the road, it’s “yours” and yours alone. The imagery is rather interesting, paths lined up side by side, each having their own; clearly some have walked through the same patch of darkness while others went up and over, yet walked through those same dark miles down the road. The road beneath our feet solely ours as we begin to find that pace that creates a sense of comfort and hope. The search is endless and there are many more miles left in this “game.”
What can I do? Desperately, I want my mom to experience this life with me. To be proud of the successes that were gained, she deserved that much. I guess so much of the time, there is that guilt of being a rebellious teenager which may have been ok, but its not ok when you can’t have that time back, I keep thinking of all those stupid things I would tell her. Yet, I know she knew I didn’t mean them and was just angry period, but still, a chance, that’s all just a chance. It seems like I won’t let myself NOT believe, that it wasn’t her choice to die, yet when I think about it “if only” begins to parade around my thoughts. As far as I’m concerned Grandma cannot be dead, but I have this awful feeling, that this time, I may be wrong. I remember going to that funeral, I remember the Dr. looking at me, saying it’s going to be a few more days. I remember crying. I remember the nurse leading me out of the room so I could cry. Surely, that was a dream, and because she has cancer I just think she’s going to die too. Surely that’s what I mean. Then, why is it, the quilt she made stays unfolded out on the bed, I had put it away for later. Why am I drawn to see pictures of her, like I can’t go to Abilene and see her? Oh no, perhaps that day did happen, I hope my mind never catches on.
SO, it’s 11:00 at night. I’ve got a mound of papers demanding my attention to be reedited and corrected on the computer. Perhaps it can wait? But, I can’t sleep. That’s been my problem – the mere idea that I can’t fall asleep, or is it I’m not allowing myself to sleep? Why wouldn’t I? I know fear inhabits my soul, I know a strange sense of loss clings to the bottom of my heart. Yet, I know, there’s nothing I can do, and yet I want there to be something. I want there to be something that will ensure that I have tried everything I know to do, and it’s over, their life, the life I held onto inside, as I do so many other things.
I tried to type out a letter from my grandma to me, and I couldn’t do it. Again, I can’t let go. Goodbye to that life, hello one I don’t even want to acknowledge. Why can’t they choose who goes with them, that would be nice. What “good” thing awaits, I mean sure there may instances of “good” but overall, life is life we all die does it matter when? Ok, some of goals and ambitions, and I do, but they don’t motivate me to live, they motivate me to not be bored with the life I have.
I don’t mean to hurt this much, I don’t mean to cradle all those idle thoughts and feelings and embrace them tightly as if they are secret, but what’s what I do. I hold tightly because that increases frustration and it’s so much easier to be frustrated than to allow tears to show themselves. Why are tears such a scary thing? I dunno..that I don’t have an answer for, or analogy, or random words, I just don’t want to. I guess, for now, I remember those tears that came flooding my being when I walked over to grandma’s bed, and just as quick had to run out, literally run out, to rest my back against the wall and fall to the floor, because her body, was changing. Her hands icy cold. Hold it, she’s in a better place, but still, the reaction that I gave that day, startles me. I wept and notice, that didn’t change a thing. To have my grandpa run after me, and he touches me arm to signal me to stand up, and he repeats over and over “Mejia she’s going to be ok. She’s going to be ok.” It was difficult to be in that room, because the moment I would sit, tears would just come, unwelcome tears would flood my eyes and I would have to leave. It wasn’t a silent cry, it was a cry that had feeling that had emotion, and for the life of me I can’t believe that kind of crying can be good.
There I go again, back to me, of my sadness and my hurt. Selfish once again, and I’d have to say for the moment, yes. For the moment, my world is nothing like I want it to be, and sure sure I can go out and gather more things to make it complete, but it’s not the “things” that satisfaction will bring me, it’s those lives, it’s those lives that have left a part of me not so complete. Seriously, it has to be true, when people, you lost a part of you. That has to be true, you are complete, yet the things that made you complete are distorted, not as strong. Your being is left with trying to fill a hole – that can’t be filled or replaced, only nurtured and shared and that’s got to be the hardest part, who the hell cares of the people who have died? They are just that, dead.
So, as morning approaches and the night sky is not so dark, it’s time to wish again. It’s time to close my eyes, and hope that this dream isn’t as harsh when morning does come. That somewhere that strength will be found, and I can get by, another day. To find that contentment and worth in the things I do, and the laughter I bring, all this to hide behind that mask, that mash of disbelief, hurt, fear and anger. What’s another day? So again..
One more time, I wish…and all those days … I’ve found myself in 2001, 2002, 2003, 2004…and the ticking of the second hand, creates another moment, another moment as I battle internally with this life, with the idea of death, with the idea of reality knowing in a moment, just one, in can end.
