2011 was something of a black hole.  I struggle to find memories of anything before about May, and I don’t know if the memories were made, and then vacuumed up in moments of loss or if the record button just never got pressed. 

I do know that every time a tsunami wave of grief knocked me over that I lost about a half hour, and maybe the waves just kept coming last year so there was scarcely a memorable moment left.

I do know that the waves still come, and will come forever. More days run together without big waves, but the waves are out there, and roll to shore without warning.  But the waves only hit to my neck now, and usually, I can stay on my feet.  With each wave there is a constriction of the lungs, and a gulp of air and a stabbing in the heart that drifts up to the head – the heart feels it first, and then the realization dawns on me.  It still hurts each time, but I am used to it now.  Its awful, but its mine.

During 2011, I respected the process.  I let myself live it.  I was patient with myself (kind of).  I lay around when I wanted to do nothing. I drank more than was respectable. I cut us all a whole lot of slack, and spent a lot of money if I thought it would make us feel better, even for a second.  I did learn stillness in 2011, which I think I will keep practicing.  Sometimes, sitting still turns out to be just fine.  I never knew that before.  Which is funny, because in general, I feel like I know a lot less than I used to know, about everything.  The funniest part is that I now know things, that I can’t remember why I know.  So I can answer a question quickly, but then I second guess myself – how do I know that? Is that true?  Did I just make it up?  Oddly enough, I am right as often as I am wrong, which makes the whole thing worse because I don’t trust myself.  I suppose trust is one of the hardest things to win back, when you are as betrayed by your sense of the universe as we were.

In any case, in the dawn of 2012, I feel a little lighter.  I think I need to do a Susan Powter, and remind myself (screaming if necessary) that “You gotta eat, you gotta breathe and you gotta MOVE!”  These are all important.  I will try all 3.  I will also try to cut back on spending.  I probably should request a new credit nard number, and one that is very hard to memorize while I am at it. 

I will try and write, again.  When I can.  Grace asks why I am not writing, and for the first time in my life I am not writing.  I found a notebook I have carried with me all year that has one page that says “2011”, one page that has 4 lines of description of the excruciating first camping trip without Andra and one page that has a grocery list.  Sometimes I think I should be writing, so I have it all down in case I want to use it someday but I can not thing of a single useful thing that would justify me reliving this pain.  And since I don’t want to live it, I can’t imagine why you would want to so I have rationalized not writing to you either. 

There are some good analogies I spout, that maybe I should get down – like “Grief is like an onion, one layer after another and they all stink.” or “Losing Andra is like losing a color.  Everything still looks structurally the same, and everything still works but it looks completely different without blue.”  Hopefully, I will remember those if I need them.

But for now, I will start with eating, breathing and moving.  And when I have those off my list, I will try writing, too.  

This entry was posted in Uncategorized. Bookmark the permalink.

3 Responses to 2012.

  1. Aunt Jane says:

    I would like that 🙂

  2. Mostly Jenine says:

    See? My REAL quote is that grief is like an onion, it has layer after layer, and they all make you cry. They stink, too, but crying was integral to the original. Sigh. 🙂

  3. Shelee says:

    Every time I get an email that there’s a “New Post at Mostly Jenine” I read it immediately. I look forward to the time when you find a place for more writing. I’ll wait patiently until then and continue to look forward to each “New post…” email that I get. Take care of yourself.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s