It Must Be Love

I woke up in the wee hours of Sunday morning and coulnd’t get back to sleep, so I whispered to Jonathan that I was going into the other room to watch the TV for a short while until I felt tired, again. I began to relax and decided to pour myself a glass of water in the spriit of keeping myself hydrated after dehydrating myself with too much exercise and not enough liquid these past few weeks.

Standing at the sink in the dark, I began to feel signs of impending weariness. I closed my eyes for a second and in that second I was overcome with terror. I gasped to catch my breath as the thought invaded my mind, “He’s going to get cancer and die.”

Ah, Sweet Guilt.

Chris was in my dream, again, last night.

I was trying to wash out the mason jar from which I drink water each day, but it kept overflowing with soapy suds. My sister said, “Oh, that’s too much soap. You can’t drink that.”

I began filling a large pot with water. Once filled, I placed the pot on the edge of the counter, but it fell onto the floor and the water spilled. My sister yelled, “Oh my god, Chris!”

When I turned and looked, Chris was on his back on the floor. He had slipped in the water and fallen and he sat on the floor laughing.

I raced over to him and hugged him, telling him “I’m so sorry!” I held onto him and my thoughts raced through my head, rapid fire, “cancer he has cancer he has cancer he has cancer he has cancer I gave him cancer.”

Then I woke up.

Not My Creej

I had a strange dream about Chris last night. His friends from Vermont and I were at a folk festival. I was talking with his friend, Bec, when I looked up and saw a man who looked exactly like Chris. My heart leapt and I couldn’t stop looking at him. I felt as though my heart was going to explode out of my chest. But I knew this man wasn’t Chris. He just looked like him. And I knew that, even though he could have been Chris’ clone, ultimately, he wouldn’t be my Chris, no matter what. He’d be different, and I’d notice the difference and my life wouldn’t be the same as it was with him in it. Still, I stared and stared and tried to find even the slightest difference in his and Chris’ appearance, but I could not. He even wore the same clothes; baggy khaki shorts down to his knees, beige suede sneakers, oversized short-sleeve button-down plaid shirt, same glasses…same everything. But not my Chris. This man didn’t know me at all.

I woke up feeling tired and sad.

A Very Late Response to my Commenters

First of all, I have been wanting to answer the comments that Alicia, Anonymous from CA and Django’s Mommy left on my last post. As always, thank you for sharing and for your well-wishing. I always appreciate the support.

Anonymous, I’m so sorry for your recent loss. You're right about loss being confusing, devastating and crippling, but I hope you know those symptoms, however long they make stick around, are ultimately temporary ones. A friend of mine is living a story similar to yours. Her husband, with whom she has shared her life for 18 years, became ill with MS and then became a heroin addict. I talk with her about it, periodically, and try to offer as much understanding and help as I can. Each loss is unique and only the person who has lost really knows his or her own pain. Loss is death, whether or not the person lost is alive or not.

I hope my journey through the woods has helped and continues to help clear some sort of a path to navigate for anyone who reads my experiences.

I could not figure out how to add my e-mail address to this blog, but if you ever want to contact me privately, Anonymous, and anybody else who would like to, I’d like you to know that you are always welcome to e-mail me at robin@shneed.com.

I hope you’re finding even the slightest bit of peace in your life as you move forward. Your pain will heal and you will feel better, eventually. Please believe, and have faith, and take care of yourself every day.

Shneed

Mount Shneed: A Volanic Eruption of Rage

I blew up at Susan (therapist), yesterday. I never blow up at anyone. Typically, I go home and blow up all alone in the safety of my solitude. I am usually a self-contained, reserved, in-control person whose emotions remain within the shell of my physical being. My personal belief is that people do not deserve the wrath of my anger, and if I become angry at someone, I usually suck in, process, cool off and then diplomatically air my feelings, when they are no longer on display. But yesterday, I completely lost control and unleashed a backdraft of anger, which has been smouldering below the surface of my psyche, probably since Chris fell ill five years ago, and certainly since his death four years ago, but which has intensified over the last two weeks for a number of reasons I haven’t yet fully admitted or realized.

Susan was trying to arrive at an agreement with me about her cancellation policy which, in itself, is an entirely benign subject. Combined with my cup of rage which had been teetering on the edge of “cup runneth over”, the subject opened the gait that had previously contained my fury, and before I knew what was happening, I was yelling, fighting for my right to be loved, screaming at her for “turning on me” and well on my way out the door promising never to return.

Susan’s good. She remained calm and composed, steering me inward, coaxing me to locate the source of my anger. At first, her calm angered me even more and even though I threatened to leave, my inner-most desire was to sit down and stay. My pride almost got in the way, but ultimately, I engaged in battle with myself, swallowed hard and sat back down to disect what happened.

I’m glad I did.

Expressing anger does not come easy to me. I fear abandonment. The fact that I unleashed my rage on Susan speaks volumes about how much I trust her. I hate that truth. I view that truth as a weakness in my otherwise inpenetrable emotional fort that renders me vulnerable to manipulation, deceit, abandonment and to my own fear, which tells me I have never been worthy of love, and that I never will be. Almost the moment I found love, it was stripped away from me in the most final manner, and if that ever happens again I will not survive the trauma. I’ll die a thousand deaths, right where I stand.

I’m committed to exploring my explosion with Susan. I’m terrified of the emotions trapped inside of me, but I want to let go. My anger gets in the way of my natural demeanor, which is mainly composed of light humor, love, kindness, serenity and joy.