The Aftermath

For a while I was super busy with work – thoroughly enjoyable work. In fact, I was at the top of my game. I suppose it was a much needed reprieve from my considerable grief and depression. Things have since slowed down, and I’m feeling distant and restless. Valium helps a bit. TV helps a bit. Reading, which I’ve once again had the concentration to tackle, has helped a bit. Cleaning the house has helped a bit. Work has helped a bit. Dan has helped a bit. The Boys have helped a bit. My dear friends have helped a bit. But nothing really makes me feel how I felt seven weeks ago.

Just a short while ago I found solace in talking to old family friends and members for whom I rarely spoke to before my mom’s death. It suddenly occurred to me that I wasn’t talking but interviewing them. I decided back in 1998 that I would never be a journalist, but suddenly I couldn’t stop asking questions. Everyone has an opinion, an accusation, a suspicion, a personal feeling of guilt. I can say there is a lot of blame to go around, but who pulled the trigger?

No one knew her like me and dad. I could let my suspicion carry me off to forbidden territory, but let’s call a spade a spade. My mother was never mentally well. Beautiful – yes. Generous – yes. Stylish – yes. Personable – yes. Funny – yes. Nurturing – yes. Great in the kitchen – yes. Great with decorating – yes. Creative – yes. But she had a secret side. This side was mean, unreasonable, unjust and sometimes deliberately cruel. This side had self-hate. This side was insecure. This side didn’t want to live anymore.

I’m reading a book called, “the curious incident of the dog in the nigh-time” by mark haddon. Yes, all lowercase. (Thank you K – for the freebie). There is a line:

Entia non sunt multiplicanda praeter necessitatem.
It’s Latin for:
No more things should be presumed to exist than absolutely necessary.

I suppose all of my interviewing has allowed people to let out all of their assumptions – their allegations. While this may have helped them, in the end all I’ve felt was played. Everything they say rings in my ears, and I wish for a moment I was without ears. Of course, my ears aren’t ringing, my feeble mind is. But I’ve forced it all.

Dealing with the aftermath of a relative’s suicide leaves a rather fragmented self. I know the parts of me, but they’re not fitting together nicely. I feel a tremendous loss, and I am lost. My day starts and ends with little gratification. I suppose all is not hopeless as I still keep going at it. I still wake up at a decent hour, wash, dress, eat, work. I still remember to set the coffee pot at night. I still feed my dogs. I still wash the dishes and sweep the floor. I do the laundry and water the plants. My fishies are fed each night. I make the bed. I clean up my desk when the work day is done and turn off my computer. I kiss the picture of my mom and dad with all 5 pugs that I have on my nightstand and tell her goodnight. I shop for groceries. I remember to record my favorite television shows. I cook supper. I call the kids each day when they get home from school. I snuggle with Dan on the couch. But it’s as if I do each of these things with a bleeding, festering sore dead center on my chest that just won’t heal. I can apply creams and ointments and sterile wraps, but the sore is raw and bone deep. It just won’t scab.

So I stitch it up with grief counseling and the suicide survivors group I go to every month whose members find me fascinating. I suppose under normal circumstances I would find this to be a compliment.

At the start of this blog I documented all of the dramatic changes in my life. Moving four hours from home seems like a relatively minor change a few months later. I still agree it was one of the best decisions I’ve made to date. I suppose what this tragedy has made me realize is that I can not continue to duck the blows. This blow hit me square on, and my feet are too weak to stand up.