Moving Forward

They say anger is actually strength coming back when you are depressed.  Better to feel angry than to feel nothing, hopeless and immobile.  So I thank the well-meaning person who pissed me off this morning enough to get me out of bed at 7 a.m., into my car with my laptop, and to the coffee shop to write this blog post, all in the pouring rain, no less. 

I had spent my weekend so far mostly in bed, under the surface, coming up to feed Jacob and pet my dog.  Being back to work has been good for me in many ways, but by the weekend, I am exhausted and want to put down the heavy weight of smiling and bantering, trying to look normal even when I'm not.  When it is the worst, these weekend vacays from the real world are similar to the closing scene in Open Water (that movie about sharks)- I am done fighting, listless, hopeless, and close my eyes tightly before simply sinking into the dark depths.  Screw the sharks.  I'm done with this game.

So my typical sleeping pattern of waking up every hour or two led me to a rare positive post on facebook, something along the lines of "Don't cry because it's over; smile because it happened"  One of the comments was "enough with looking back".  Said with the best intentions, I'm sure, but it just pissed me off, providing a surge of energy...so thanks for that. 

And here I am.

I am not a stupid woman.  I have long since figured out that I am not moving forward at a faster pace because letting go of my pain will feel like letting go of my last connection with my child. 

But it's sort of like my paintings.  Again, I'm not a stupid woman- I know how to use color without making mud.  I know that colors opposite each other on the color wheel mixed make brown, such colors need to be done in layers with dry time in between.  I know this, but put a brush in my hand and let me do what comes naturally and every painting comes out dark, muddy, some even what others call "scary".  To me, they are just honest.

 I think again of the little boy in the Sixth Sense who drew some disturbing pictures, leading to a meeting between school administrators and his distraught mother.  After that, he stuck to rainbows, people smiling, etc.  What did he say?  "They don't have meetings about rainbows."  Yeah, I could make a conscious effort to use color more vibrantly but it wouldn't represent my true feelings.  Art is expression; so get down with my muddy, ugly renderings if you can- I have a feeling the pretty stuff is a long way off.

And in response to being told I need to "move forward"-  buddy, I am doing the best I can.  I am making a huge effort at work to kiss my girl on the forehead and check my grief at the door.  My time at work belongs to the children and families I serve.  My time at home belongs to me, to wade through my grief the best I can, stumbling often, and resting when I can't take another step.

I think what people may not realize is that not all of looking back is voluntary.  The flashbacks, the nightmares, the intrusive thoughts come when they please.  I deal with them the best I can.  The best way to stop them in to jump into a cold shower, which isn't always available.  Beyond that, I have learned I can pop a peppermint in my mouth, bite into a lemon (which sounds simply delightful and I can only imagine the faces of my colleagues if I pulled one out of my purse and popped it in my mouth at our next management meeting), or begin naming colors and pieces of furniture in my immediate surroundings.  The idea with the shower, peppermint hard candy, and lemon is to overwhelm your senses and interrupt the nastiness your brain is up to at the moment.  The naming of colors and furniture is called "grounding" and is meant to orient you to the present, so that the "real time" feel of your memory is challenged.  Fun stuff.

What happened over a calendar year ago to other people, still feels like a couple weeks to my overwrought brain.  Six months, twelve months- these ridiculous time markers when people start commenting to each other about how the person should get back to normal mean nothing.  Nothing.
 
And since I'm just putting it all out there today, let me share with the person who told me I was "wallowing" in my grief that the definition of wallow is to "indulge in an unrestrained way in something that creates a pleasurable sensation".  For the record, I'm not having a good time here- no pleasure going on.  And come talk to me about wallowing when you've lost one of your children in a sudden and violent manner.

Anger is strength coming back.  Think I'll go break some plates.