“That echo chorus lied to me with its
Hold on, hold on, hold on, hold on"
--Neko Case
I’ve had a rough go lately. Ironic, since there’s so much good in my life.
I finally got my own place and it’s lovely—Jersey City, 2 bedrooms, 2 blocks from the Hudson and Manhattan views.
Work’s busy. I’m finally ready for a fuller agenda, and have a nice mix of part-time roles: Teaching (brings out my nurturing side, which doesn’t get much expression nowadays), strategic planning for the Zen guys, consulting and a new nonprofit advertising gig.
And best of all, looks like I’ll be published soon, in the NY
Times no less (one reason I haven’t posted
here—spent the summer writing this longer piece). I’m still processing—“official” recognition of my writing, a
broader audience for my voice and story.
Beyond now seeing myself as a “real” writer, where will this take me,
what doors will open?
And my friends are still amazing. The grief conventional wisdom holds that bereaved parents are lucky if they have one good friend who sticks by them. I have…well, just about too damn many to count.
So what’s the problem? I’ll be blunt—I’ve had serious ‘will to live’ issues the past month or so.
It’s up and down, but overall I’m just tired, my soul’s tired. The kind of tired sleep doesn’t help.
It takes a lot to stay positive—manage grief, the pain, the memories, be with other’s children without self-pity, love my apartment and my life, without undue focus on the events that brought me here.
I’m different, in some ways radically, and the growing pains on my 43-year-old psyche are almost too much. My relationship to money is different—it’s hard to take the Fidelity rep seriously when my real issue is finding reason to live another 20+ years (no answers for that in their scripting).
And “career”—that’s for people whose worlds weren’t destroyed. Instead I focus on paying the bills (not quite there yet), and more importantly, creating meaning out of the debacle of my life.
I live with much heaviness, darkness, probably always will—no ‘getting over it’ or ‘moving on’, just learning to live with it. It takes joy and happiness to balance, and that’s missing for me right now and perhaps why I’m struggling.
After a ridiculous number of breaking-ups and getting-back-togethers, Cub and I finally parted (really, really) this summer. We ended well, particularly given that we had feelings for each other but were ending it anyway. (I finally wanted something longer-term, he didn’t.) The NY Times essay is about us, how he helped me heal. I wrote it to both process and put “us” in the past, while creating a memorial of sorts. He loved it. Probably still does, but its being published brought up issues this week, with the final result of our hurting each other in ways we’d never have thought possible while actually dating.
This lovely essay, all about my finding hope after loss,
through the joy, connection and love he brought to my life…and now, a
battlefield between us, strewn with the dead bodies and carnage of anger,
betrayal, rejection, disappointment, hurt feelings and sorrow.
I hope we have the energy and will to go out and clean up the wreck.
I’m holding on.
Comments