Outside on the balcony of the house, smoking cigarettes with Ryan before he leaves for his daily commute to work.
LIZ: I'm sorry for waking you up so late last night.Neither Ryan or I knew what time it was when I got out of bed last night, sobbing. I do know what sparked the waterworks. It's embarrassing to admit because my sudden, deep sadness was sparked by one simple sentence from the bedtime story I read to Adam last night, [Mercer Mayer's Just a Bad Day]. Hearing myself say the sentence out loud made me feel vulnerable and lost. I wished that I could say the sentence in my everyday life, but I'll never get the chance to again. The sentence I'm referring to;
RYAN: I don't think it was that late, really. Do you know what time it was?
LIZ: No...
RYAN: Well try to have a good day.
LIZ: I'll be okay. It was just unexpected. It surprised me as much as it surprised you.
Then dad came home.
I was actually in a great mood last night until reading that sentence. It triggered something that made my heart feel like it was hit by a speeding freight train going 100 MPH; the train hauling issues from 2009 nearly smashing over the last, little bit of positive outlook I have left .
After Ryan left for work this morning, I began recalling my various experiences with death and loss. My archived mental notes exhibited a pattern I never noticed until now. It appears that I have a record. I have a record of habit; coming to terms with grief from the passing of my loved ones at the most inconvenient times and places.
There was last night's book massacre, and the coffee nazi...and there was even a third time I was K.O.'d by sudden grief.
A former lover of mine, [whom afterward, I remained good friends with], Smaz, died in a car accident in October 2002, I continued to live life as if his death didn't deeply affect me. Roughly a month after he passed, my advisor asked me to help judge a high school theatre contest and I agreed. The first scene we watched was from Steel Magnolias. As the characters began talking about their sister who just died, my eyes began to swell up at the mention of death. I bolted out of the theatre, [quietly as possible because I have a deep respect for the sanctuary of the stage.] Once I got out of the building and made it outside, I lurched over the grass like I was going to vomit but nothing came out. I just started hyperventilating. My heart began pounding and it felt like someone just shot me in the chest, close range, with a bazooka gun. I found out later that my reaction was a panic attack, complete with tears that erupted from my eyes as if they were mini geysers.
Even after assessing my coping skills, I do not understand why I reacted the way I did to the book last night. How could one measly sentence send me into a black hole of defeat? I feel like I've come to terms with 2009; my father's death, followed by the homicide, then my grandpa's passing, so there's no need to overreact anymore. Not understanding why it got to me so badly eats at me [almost] more than the feelings of depression that came with it.
There are a multitude of things that can ignite loss from the past. I get that. They say there's no exact way to partake in or understand the grieving process. The most important thing to do, is to allow yourself to grieve however you choose to, as needed. So I guess that means I have to accept that if I still cry sometimes over my father's death, it just happens. I wished I didn't because I hate sobbing. Simply, it sucks.
I am hopeful that in the future, the fall-out of feelings from 2009 will not feel as intensely negative as they do now. Once I get my memoir project finished, I believe it will be a huge step in helping me release some of the unsettled grief and grievances I continue to hold inside.
In a letter from my father that was written in 1997, he told me the cycle of negativity that lingered around our family had to be stopped, starting with me and my life. His words and direction in the letter didn't make sense to me back then, but today I finally understand what he meant.
After Ryan left for work this morning, I began recalling my various experiences with death and loss. My archived mental notes exhibited a pattern I never noticed until now. It appears that I have a record. I have a record of habit; coming to terms with grief from the passing of my loved ones at the most inconvenient times and places.
There was last night's book massacre, and the coffee nazi...and there was even a third time I was K.O.'d by sudden grief.
A former lover of mine, [whom afterward, I remained good friends with], Smaz, died in a car accident in October 2002, I continued to live life as if his death didn't deeply affect me. Roughly a month after he passed, my advisor asked me to help judge a high school theatre contest and I agreed. The first scene we watched was from Steel Magnolias. As the characters began talking about their sister who just died, my eyes began to swell up at the mention of death. I bolted out of the theatre, [quietly as possible because I have a deep respect for the sanctuary of the stage.] Once I got out of the building and made it outside, I lurched over the grass like I was going to vomit but nothing came out. I just started hyperventilating. My heart began pounding and it felt like someone just shot me in the chest, close range, with a bazooka gun. I found out later that my reaction was a panic attack, complete with tears that erupted from my eyes as if they were mini geysers.
Even after assessing my coping skills, I do not understand why I reacted the way I did to the book last night. How could one measly sentence send me into a black hole of defeat? I feel like I've come to terms with 2009; my father's death, followed by the homicide, then my grandpa's passing, so there's no need to overreact anymore. Not understanding why it got to me so badly eats at me [almost] more than the feelings of depression that came with it.
There are a multitude of things that can ignite loss from the past. I get that. They say there's no exact way to partake in or understand the grieving process. The most important thing to do, is to allow yourself to grieve however you choose to, as needed. So I guess that means I have to accept that if I still cry sometimes over my father's death, it just happens. I wished I didn't because I hate sobbing. Simply, it sucks.
I am hopeful that in the future, the fall-out of feelings from 2009 will not feel as intensely negative as they do now. Once I get my memoir project finished, I believe it will be a huge step in helping me release some of the unsettled grief and grievances I continue to hold inside.
In a letter from my father that was written in 1997, he told me the cycle of negativity that lingered around our family had to be stopped, starting with me and my life. His words and direction in the letter didn't make sense to me back then, but today I finally understand what he meant.
Your dad has beautiful handwriting. Reminds me of my fathers. Maybe your dad's spirit reincarnated into mine to make him a better person. Sounds silly but I believe it.
ReplyDeleteLove you <3