Back From Hell

I'd like to share another song with you. It's had me thinking alot lately about the process of grief. It's called Back From Hell, and it's also by Gary Allen. It's country, so forgive me if it's a bit simplistic and redundant.

I just got back from Hell
and I'm standing here alive.
I know it's really hard to tell,
Don't know how I survived.
I can't say that I'm doin' great,
But I think I'm doin' well.
That Devil's gonna have to wait
'Cause I just got back from Hell

Well, I just got back from Hell
And I guess to tell the truth
I've been mad at everyone,
including God and you.
When you can't find no one to blame,
You just blame yourself.
And I know I'll never be the same
I just got back from Hell

Forgive me if I had any part
If I ever broke your heart in two
Forgive me for what I didnt know,
For what I didnt say or do.
And, God, forgive me as well
'Cause I just got back from Hell

Well, I just got back from Hell
And I need to make some plans.
It's the last thing that I wanna do
But I'll do the best I can.
I'm gonna learn to live again,
But I think I'll sit a spell.
Tell the world that I'm alive
and I just got back from Hell.
I can't say that I'm doin' great
But I think I'm getting well
Gonna let the world know I'm alive
And I just got back from Hell

It's especially the last stanza that I want to talk about today.

I'm very afraid of the end of the year. All the way from Thanksgiving through New Years I expect to really, really suck. Sometimes all I can think is that I wish I were through this year already. Other times, all I can think is "I can't believe it's September...". I feel like I'm stuck in fast forward and reverse at the same time.

I feel like I've been living in a scary, dark hole. I'm afraid to come out, though, because the world out there is even scarier. Many people have been telling me that things don't get better in the second year. They just get different; but I have it on good authority that things won't get easier. I've started to have these flashes where I look around and realize the world is still moving on without me... without him. This causes me great distress, since my personal theory of relativity said that that wasn't possible. It violates the laws of nature that the (my) world still turns without him here to stabilize it.

I'm finding grief at this point to be alot like giving birth (well.... what I imagine giving birth is like). I'll be ok for a short bit of time, and then the pain comes out of nowhere. You grit your teeth and scream and breathe until it passes. Then you wait with relief and apprehension until another wave comes. The moments of peace in between the waves of pain are where life continues. I'll start to think about life after this... and the idea repels me. I'll start to have hope that maybe things will be ok, but this thought racks me with a guilt that is indescribable. You see, things can't ever be ok again, because I made a promise. If "CJ and Tamsen" was the most important thing that ever was, how can anything "only Tamsen" does ever be worthwhile? If he was the only thing that really mattered, how in the hell am I supposed to find something else that matters at all? I feel like I'm being torn apart from the inside: half of me desperately needs hope that I'll come out of this alright, the other half of me feels like anything resembling a normal life would be evidence that CJ wasn't necessary.

But the moments of clarity are there, and they're becoming more frequent. Like someone who's been lost at sea that starts to see signs of land - a bird in the sky or a floating tree branch. For eight months now, I've been living within the shadow of CJ's death. It's always there, lurking in the corners waiting to jump out and grab me. But a few months ago I went away for the weekend with a friend. For two whole days, I felt like a normal person. The love I have for CJ, my adoration of him, my respect for him, my gratitude for him were all still there - but the pain wasn't. And I didn't feel guilty - which is usually what I feel whenever happiness sneaks up on me. It was the first time since the day he died that I felt - that I believed - that life without CJ was possible. (See? Even writing that last line still inspires a sense of guilt...)

Even so, I feel that that weekend was a break-through of sorts for me, emotionally speaking. For so long now I've been getting by on just hoping that things would work out, that I'd find a way to get better, a way to be content, if not happy. But that one brief, shining moment where I really knew that I will be alright, and that there will come a day where my life will be worth the trouble again has helped me to move forward another step in the process of grief. It's easier to deal with the pain today if you really believe (instead of just hope) that things will get better, that the pain will ease as the years go by. Like the last stanza of that song, I feel like I'm at a place where things can start to change. I may not have come all the way through Hell yet, but I'm finally through one level of it, I think. I'm ready to start thinking about the possibilites - without guilt, if not without pain. I need to make some plans. It's the last thing that I wanted, but I'll do the best I can. So, I'm gonna try to learn to live again, but first I think I'll sit a spell. I just wanted you all to know I think I'm getting well. See you on the other side of Hell.

Blessed Be,
Tamsen

Anger Management

I can't believe how angry I've felt lately. I didn't really notice it at first. Then I began having these dreams - all these angry, violent dreams. Dreams where I get in fights with people and beat them up. Dreams where I run down pedestrians with my car. Dreams where other people who would ordinararily never be anrgy or violent are. Dreams with lots of punishment, blood, beatings and rage. I find I've been grinding my teeth and biting the insides of my cheek while I sleep, too. In general, I've just been running on a short fuse, quick to anger and quicker to annoyance.

The problem is that it's an elusive anger. I'm not mad at anyone in particular, not really. I think I've been a bit cranky, a bit edgy of late. Maybe even (a little =D) bitchiness will I admit to. But I'm not really angry at any one person or event. I wasn't even going to bother posting about this, but as I've talked to others in our social group, I've found a common thread in our resentment and anger towards the outside world. And towards each other, truth be told. All along this road, I've harbored anger at those I felt weren't towing the line, weren't doing their fair bit to keep up with the rest of us, if you know what I mean. Things that had been small differences and minor annoyances before CJ's death became an outlet for my negative emotions, allowing me a funnel to get the incredible rage over my own misfortune out of my heart, off my chest and out into the world. As time has passed, these directed tirades have subsided to be replaced by a general sense of discontent.

The worst is the anger I feel towards people whose lives are going well. I got an email today from an old and somewhat distant friend of mine. He just had a baby boy, and was emailing out pictures to all of his friends and family, as any proud father would. It just makes me so sad when I see other people happy with their new lives, starting new families. And I hate to be sad, so I suppose I translate that emotion into an undefined bitterness instead. But just the same, what kind of terrible person must I be to hate others for their happiness? What right on earth do I have to be angry because other people get to be happy? What kind of intolerance is that, when you are mad that others have the gall to be happy in your presence. It makes me wonder if, in the before time, CJ and I made others unhappy with our friendship, our relationship. Are there those who resented us, who were angry because we were happy in a way they weren't?

We all seem more hardened, in our own way. You deal with the hurt and the loss and the grief as best you can, but it leaves little calluses on your heart. Hard spots that may not have been there before. I find that I can't handle people's minor grievances anymore. Anytime someone starts to trip out over the small things, I just want to bitch slap them. Sit down! Shut up! Get a fucking grip! You have no idea what a real problem is! But just the same, such incredible anger is unjustified. In their own limited range of life experience, maybe this minor crisis does seem life threatening. Maybe they just aren't aware how small and insignificant their complaints are to others because in their world it's the biggest possible existing problem they can see. I'm pretty sure that my life was like that before. All the minor, petty things that drive us crazy - I used to have all those complaints, too. I think they just withered up and died like weeds in the ever present shadow of mom and CJ's deaths. I hope they don't come back; I'm better off without them, I think.

The third and final vein of this anger is the worst, though. It's when you meet people you don't like for whatever reason and think, why are you still here and CJ isn't? Or even worse than that, why am I still here and CJ isn't? It's the presumption that the loss of your beloved was unjustified enough by itself, compounded when you meet others who are - you ready for this one? - less worthy of life. Yeah, I know how atrocious that sounds to those who aren't bereaved. But it's there, it's true. Sometimes you pass judgement on other peoples right to life based on the life that was lost, it's potential, it's importance in your own life. The good may die young, but that doesn't make it alright. And that alone is enough to piss you off when you come face-to-face with those you might find lacking... even when that person is yourself.

There's not any real resolution to this type of anger. Not for me anyway, not yet. I just hope the heat of my anger and resentment doesn't wind up burning down all the bridges I've built over the last decade. They say that anger is one of the bedrock emotions of grieving. I think it's the most destructive one, though. Anger doesn't really serve anyone in the long run. It's a very satisfying emotion, though. Feeling lost, hopeless, sad - you can't do anything with those, you can't fix them. But anger... anger feels constructive. You can find outlets for that. You can do things with anger and hatred. (Disclaimer: I'm about to geek out here, so bear with me). In Star Wars Mythology, a dark jedi gains ability far faster than a regular jedi and is usually more powerful. That's because they funnel anger as leverage, as a tool. Of course, the lesson, the moral, if you will, is that doing so will destroy you in the end. And I believe that. I think that anger is a healthy part of grieving, a necessary part. But don't let it consume you. Eventually, in order to move on, you have to let go of it; let go of the resentment and the feelings of injustice. If you can't move past anger, then you'll never move past grief. Like everything else, that may be simple, but it's not easy.

Memory

In the beginning of this journey I had the constant fear that I'd forget. Forget his face, his smile, the shape of his hands, the sound of his voice, his sense of humor, the way his dimples showed up whenever he was trying too hard to be serious. I was afraid I'd forget everything. This is not an unnecessarily unfounded concern. I've forgotten most of the people I went to High School with, and don't even remember the time period before that - the hazy first fifteen years of my life are depicted in my mind as bright flashes of sunlight and senses of lingering emotion more than as real memories. I was so afraid that CJ would become that: a set of out-of-focus pictures dancing around in the background of my mind.

I needn't have worried. Now, I'm drowning in my memories. I see him everywhere I look, both right in front of my face when I'm sitting alone and out of the corner of my eye when I'm with others. I hear his voice in my dreams right after I wake up, and everytime I answer the phone. Everytime I come home and call out, I hear him answer. I hear his running commentary on the inside of my head. I feel him breathing beside me when I sleep at night. I'm haunted by him, but not in the romantic Ghost way. More in the tortured Scott Summers way. His being gone just makes the voids where he used to be pronounced enough that they've become entities in and of themselves.

You know in the movies, when they show someone standing in an empty room, and then some section of the room lights up and a flashback scene happens while they look on? Usually in a soft focus lens, in slightly slowed motion with a bright filter on - you know, for atmosphere. It's like that. I walk down the driveway every morning, and there we are in our first kiss. I walk in our old room and he's sitting there at the computer, knee bopping up and down to keep the rhythm of his thoughts. I'll be cooking in the kitchen, and he'll come up and put his arms around me, tell me how he loves me and how glad he his that I'm his wife. He passes me on his bike at least once a day. I'll be at the movies with friends and see the two of us one row down, holding hands with my head on his shoulder. He's everywhere he's not. He's with me always except I can't touch him or talk to him.

I remember everything, but there are days when I wished I didn't. Remembrance is a double edged sword: reminding us why we loved in the first place, but also why it hurts so much when that love is gone. This is Shakespeare's ancient quandary: better to have loved and lost? Somedays the loss hurts enough to make you wonder... there was a book I read once - long enough ago that I can't remember the title or author (see? there's my awesome memory at work yet again!). In the story, the man is coping with the death of his wife sometime in the near future. He runs a business where people can plug themselves into virtual realities (like the holodeck on Star Trek, kind of). Anyway, the machine can also download a person's thoughts and memories onto a program, erasing them forever from our minds. Towards the end of the story, the man winds up downloading all of his life from the time he met his wife forward into the computer. He "wakes up" bewildered to find a hand-written note that goes something like this pinned on his chest: You are a good man. You've had a good life and nothing bad ever happened to you. Go out and live the rest of it in the same fashion...

Makes me wonder. Not worth it, I figure. I don't imagine the pain of loss ever gets bad enough that you'd rather not have danced at all (to misquote Garth Brooks). But just the same, I sincerely look forward to the day where the past isn't more real than the present, when my memories are sweet and kind friends instead of harsh and painful masters. Experience makes us, in large part, who we are. And it's what we've gone through, survived or done before that defines who we are today. If you like who you are, then it stands to reason that you have to appreciate all the thorns that brought you here. Like Kirk, in the Final Frontier: I need my pain! (Wow... two Star Trek references in one blog... I am such a loser...) In many ways my previous hurts are what define me, and I wouldn't be who I am without the lessons learned. While none of us want the bad hands that get dealt, in the end I hope I can appreciate the changes wrought by them. At least I don't have to worry anymore that I'll forget - I suppose that's a gift in and of itself.

Love to all, blessed be.

Tamsen