Sometimes the losses of the last 5 years catch up with me.
They say it is not good to be in denial, but sometimes this is really the only way for me to cope. Not thinking about them all. Not counting.
Not accounting for the toll that all my losses have taken on my soul. The trauma.
But my subconscious does not forget. And certainly, neither does my heart.
Life goes on, as they say, and I am pulled forward by its inertia.
Kids growing up, having daily needs.
The dog that relies on her daily routines and dutifully reminds you when you forget.
The grandfather clock that requires winding every week.
Laundry piling up, dust settling in all the places.
The tank running low on gas.
Uneaten food slowly decomposing in the refrigerator.
Your body requiring rest, nourishment, grooming.
And yes, the seasons changing.
It is easier sometimes to let these things pull you forward and not resist. This makes perfect sense, and it keeps you firmly in the world of the living, even if you are barely participating in it.
Over time, your body recognizes the routines, and your brain clicks in so that you are actually able to be more productive. More conscious of forward movement and active involvement.
You might even fool yourself into thinking, "Ah, yes. Time does heal all wounds."
I wouldn't call it blissful, but denial can be a haven of sorts.
I know it is hard to believe that I have been in denial of my losses because I write about them so regularly here, but trust me when I tell you: I am really only covering some of it.
My brain is simply not big enough to handle them all.
Until, that is, it decides to go on the fritz.
And for me, this is what it looks like: a sudden irrational (is it, really?) fear of more losses. A gripping terror that immobilizes me. The kind that makes my heart pound in my chest so hard, my body forgets how to function. I could not even summon tears for relief.
The kind that sends me back to bed after I drop the kids off at school. Where I stay until it is time to pick them up again, 7 hours later.
Not full-blown, thank God, but certainly an anxiety attack.
This, after months of carrying on and letting inertia pull me forward.
And here is the terrible way my subconscious brain reminded me of my trauma recently:
I had a dream that started happily. Mike in my life, doing normal things. Like he had never been away. Like I had never missed him. I revel in his presence.
Evelt, my soul-sister, gone now for just over a year, sending me texts as if she had never left.
In my dream, I am content. At peace.
Until I look at some picture frames I am dusting and realize that, in my dream, we had lost one of our children. That she was no longer in our lives.
And this is the terrible thing that wakes me up. Brutally.
They say there is nothing worse than losing a child. I have never lost one, except in this horrible dream.
I daresay I never want to feel that way again.
(And to be honest, I don't have the words to describe just how devastating it felt.)
But this is the thing that reminds me of everyone's fragility. Our mortality. Of how very real, how very close, loss can be.
I should know this by now, having lost so many people. So many of my favorite people. Some who were too young to die.
And surely, I should know this just by watching my parents in their twilight years.
And yet I do not choose to dwell in this reality because I have found this fear to be paralyzing.
More than this, there is nothing to be done about this "fact of life". I have no more control over people's lives than I did 5 years ago. And I never will.
But this dream-turned-nightmare drenched me with ice-cold terror and took hold of my consciousness.
So I stayed in bed for as long as my duties allowed. (Because, God help me, I have people who count on me.) Licking my wounds. Agonizing over my heartbreak and my fears. Recognizing my trauma for what it is. Praying.
And the next day, I started over, putting one foot in front of the other. Letting myself be pulled forward through the act of living again.
Because, I ask myself, what else is there to do?
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