The world is upside down…

Ongoing trauma. The things you think about…when you’re in the trench.

What? When? Where? Why? How? Will I cope? Will the people around me cope?

Useless energy. Thinking about these things so often. The thing is: I will never be ready and I can’t plan for it. You’re never ready for the pain or grief. The amount always stays the same. It never goes away. Never. It’s your ability to cope that changes over time. You become better at it. Better at loss. Better of grief. Maybe better isn’t the right word. Cope. Cope is a better word. It’s never how you think it will be, never when, never how, never where, never what you think. Life is full of those types of surprises.

I spoke with my aunt tonight. Christie. She might be the strongest, most amazing person I know. And that’s saying something because I know some pretty extraordinary people. She and I are related by marriage and we’ve always been family, but when her son (my cousin, who was also one of my closest friends) was diagnosed with cancer, she and I became thick as thieves. I tell her, “It is as though the universe knew I would need you later on in life.” We needed to grieve for Trystan together so that we could grieve for my mom together too.

There are very few people I grieve with. I could talk about what’s happening to most people, even shed a few tears, but to actually lean, to give into that pain – that is reserved for a select few. I would have never thought to lean on her before Trystan got sick. We didn’t have that type of relationship. He brought us together. And I am forever grateful. Just one more thing he gave me. We spoke constantly while he was in the midst of his battle (while I was living in South Africa). I didn’t make it back in time, but when I did come back, I immediately got on a plane to see her. I needed to see her. She needed to see me. We needed to be together. We helped each other cope.

And now…because she’s become like a second mom, when I’m ready to actually face my feelings about the ongoing trauma of what’s happening to my own mom, I call her and I hear her voice and I just start to cry. The flood gates open so to speak. I allow myself to feel this. Really feel it. I only ever call her in the privacy of my apartment when I’m by myself.  And I tell her all the things I don’t say to the outside world. I tell her what I only tell a select few…mainly:

I want my mom.

I miss her. I rarely allow myself to feel that. Because it’s a whole other level of pain. It’s a reality that often I just don’t want to deal with. It’s too much. There are so many times I would have picked up the phone to call her. In terms of emotional support, she was the go-to. I remember a few years ago when the man I loved left me at an airport (it’s a long story..), I walked out of the terminal sobbing, completely in shock. So much loss in such a short period of time. And before I even hit the doors, I called her. Because in those types of moments…you just need your mother. It’s different. It doesn’t matter how complicated our relationship is, sometimes you just need your mother. She was that call. She was always that call. The call you make when you’ve lost…when you’re lost.

I lost someone again recently (a different person just to be clear). But this time, she wasn’t the call. I didn’t call anybody. I didn’t sob on the phone to anyone this time. I didn’t and still don’t quite know what to do with myself. I haven’t quite embraced all of that yet. I tell bits and pieces to people, but I haven’t spilled. I haven’t let go. Because the world is upside down. The world is upside when there’s a person who has your mom’s voice and her body, but doesn’t always remember who you are; who is angry, sad, frustrated, desperate, and often lashes out at you because she’s losing control.

The world is upside down. 

On any given day I am conditioned to resist loss and pull away from fear and grief because I want joy. I want it so bad. The fear and the grief are often just in my way and they take up time I can be spending trying to find my joy. I tend to think that I’ll just deal with the grief later. It’s so much weight and I don’t want to be sidelined. I want to LIVE! These days I’m finding it harder to do that. But when talking to Christie, I let go. I give her my vulnerability because she’s earned it. I don’t do it often because I don’t want to burden her, but when I do seek her out, I know that I’m safe with her. And that no matter what I say, or how I feel, she will stay with me on the phone (or in person if I make it to the other coast) for as long as it takes. For as long as I need. And because, like me, she has learned to cope with tremendous loss, she knows what I need. She stays. Sometimes minutes. Sometimes hours. She doesn’t leave.

She and I speak the same language. And we both understand that there is an inherent power and responsibility somehow. People look to you…because when shit gets tough, there are many who you think will be there, but they won’t. And yet sometimes out of nowhere you find people who understand a piece of life that many don’t…loss. It’s like another language…that a lot of people don’t speak. The language of loss. Some people don’t go through it until very late in life. Sometimes I’m jealous of that naivety. But then I think I wouldn’t even know what to do with myself if I didn’t speak ‘this language.’ It’s engrained in me. It’s a part of my identity. And I’m not sure who I would be without it.

Now that’s an interesting thought…who would I be…who will I be…when I’m out of the trench? The tears have stopped now. Goodnight.