Shaving and Grief

One of the things I decided to do after me darlin' wife left this world is to learn how to shave with a straight razor. I'd been interested off and on for quite some time, but this time around I finally got into putting the energy and effort into it. I know it's something that I pretty much only get to do on the weekends. It's not something I can do quickly in the morning before going to work. And, in some respects, it's a lot easier to use an electric or one of the disposable, good-quality razors you can find in a drug store or Wal-Mart. Still, there's something appealing to me about developing that skill. It's hope men shaved for a long, LONG time. And, heck, if the world ever does go to Hell, I'll still be able to shave. Heh...

Part of the process for me has been also learning how to sharpen and maintain a razor. I've known how to sharpen knives for a long time. That's been really handy, especially keeping my kitchen cutlery in good shape. The technique used for sharpening a razor, though, is substantially different from what you'd use for a kitchen or pocket knife. The edge that's needed is thinner so that it can be sharper. I've been working on that, too. And, in the process, I've gotten to learn that there's a big difference in how a razor operates when it's sharp versus when it's not. When it's not sharp enough, it is substantially more uncomfortable to shave. Sometimes even painful as it's more tearing hair rather than cutting smoothly through it. It's also true that it's far more likely that a dull razor will cut you. And that's no fun.

However, a properly sharpened razor has one major issue to it: IT WILL CUT YOU AND YOU WON'T EVEN FEEL IT.

As I'd thought about it, that has reminded me of dealing with grief in some ways. There have been plenty of things that surprised me, that brought up a lot more pain or anger or fear or confusion than I'd foreseen or expected. They were things I walked into, thinking nothing of them, and then found myself bleeding emotionally. And it's taken awhile to figure out just why that happened. It's a similar challenge in learning to shave with a straight razor, not having the immediate pain to let you know instantly when you've done something wrong. You get to figure it out in retrospect...and hopefully get it right.

Along with that, progress does come. I deal with things better now than I used to. Even the hard things generally don't mess with me as bad as they used to. Sure, sometimes I still get surprised. Sometimes handling things better means they hurt half as much, or maybe half as long. A fair chunk of that has come from trying to look back over what's come up, what I've done, and figuring out how to do it better. Now, when I do a good shave, I'm proud of how I look, how my face feels. Now, when I deal with something that was hard better than I did before, I've got some confidence in being able to handle things.

It doesn't mean there's not more to go through. But it helps bolster my faith with belief based on experience that I can make it all the way down....and eventually out.

Blind Spots and Soup

I was talking with one of the widows in the local group a couple of days ago. The one thing I've learned well in this whole nightmare is that it is a VERY GOOD IDEA to call your support folks when you're not doing well. Even if it's just to vent, it's a good thing. You don't need to even be able to clearly articulate all of the myriad threads and interwoven dynamics that are resulting in a sense of malaise and dysphoria (OK, I think my thesaurus just abdicated....). You sometimes only need to say that you feel miserable and have someone else hear it out.

This particular time, I was dealing with feeling lonely and sad and scared. What was really bugging me about it was that I couldn't put my finger on why. I've been pretty used to having a decent handle on understanding what's going on with me. It doesn't always mean I can do much about it; often, sadly, it has nothing to do with me doing much about it, at least at the time. But it's less crazy-making, at least in my head, when I have some sense of what's going on. This time around, that was not happening, and it was making me even more edgy and anxious and irritable and prone to having four-letter conversations with God while standing on my porch smoking a cigarette.

Having a little bit of sense left, I got ahold of, as I said, one of the local widows. She was one of the first I'd met out here. While there are lots of differences between us, I've always felt we've been able to relate quite well. I figured she'd be a good one to talk to, just to be able to put it out there and have someone say that they understand, that it makes sense to them, that I don't sound insane.

So my jaw hit the floor when, about three minutes into the conversation, she told me what she thought was going on, and it felt right.

I'd known we all have blind spots. Expecting we're all going to understand ourselves perfectly is about like expecting someone to be able to see the back of their own eyeball unaided. At the same time, the idea that I've had a good handle on myself (relatively speaking), has been a comfort. It's helped me get through the last couple-years-and-then-some. And, to be honest, there's a part of me that tends to think that some of my inner workings aren't the easiest to understand. That they'd take some explaining. So it was stunning and mind-numbing and humbling to have someone else, someone young enough to potentially be my daughter (hey, I could've started that early!) nail what's going on with me that quickly & easily. The shorthand for it? I want my mommy to come and make me soup.

No, not literally. I mean, not that I'd mind getting to visit with my Mom, and she makes some killer soup. But that was the shorthand. The more complete explanation is that I'm going through some scary stuff. I've had to go to a cardiologist. My heart isn't beating regularly. The last test is on hold as the cardiologist and the insurance company battle it out to see how much of it I'd be expected to pay for. And I'm still kind of floating in limbo with regard to just what the Hell it is, how serious it is, and what can/should be done about it. And that's all scary.

My friend made the point that, even 2.5 years out from my wife's death, I'd had a long time (almost 15 years) to get used to having someone there on a regular basis. Even folks with mental illness can pull themselves together enough and set aside their own crap enough when someone important to them is in crisis. Admittedly, that doesn't always last long. But at least they do serve as someone who's there. So when something like this that's serious and scary comes up, it both highlights the absence and also triggers the immediate, reflexive wanting to find that person who we've gotten used to being there...and kinda makes us flip out when they're not there. She compared it to the first time someone's gotten sick after going away to college. Sure, you might have friends around you could call in a pinch, but deep down, what you really want is for your mommy to come and make you soup.

The moral of today's story is twofold. 1) We all have blind spots. Having done lots of work on yourself helps reduce those, but it also, in some ways, makes them trickier and more intense. It gets easier to think they're not there because we've already figured ourselves out. And this kind of deep loss and pain and grief just aggravates all that. 2) No one makes it through Hell and out without some guidance. The angels who come to point the way can take a lot of different shapes and appear in a lot of different ways. But ultimately no-one does it all on their own. And there's nothing at all wrong with asking for or accepting help. Otherwise, it's far too easy to get lost in some of the bewildering and bewitching domains we have to travel to get down and out.

Pain and Holding Space

There's two things on my mind today, and I'm going to try to fit both into one entry, so please bear with me. One of them has to do with a realization, an insight that came to me a few days ago. See, come the beginning of next month, me darlin' wife will have been gone for 2.5 years. In that time, I've looked at a couple of things in my life and thought that it might be a good idea to change them. It might be good to get out of the house where I live. It's far more space than I need. I'm able to pay for it, but it pretty much means I live paycheck to paycheck. It's also the house we bought together, and where we lived from May of 2003 until February of 2011. That's a lot of time to build up memories. And they're still there. There isn't a room here I can go into where there aren't memories and reminders of her. Some are tougher than others, but they're all there. By extension, I've thought the same about moving out of the city where I live. We were together here for almost 15 years, and there's not a lot of places to go that don't remind me of her. Like the house, some are stronger about that than others, but there's not much of anywhere to go nearby that doesn't have the potential to bring memories up.

Then there's my job. There are a lot of things I like about it. There are several I really dislike, and some of those have cropped up since me darlin' wife took her life. I'd miss some of the colleagues I have. I'd miss doing the kind of work I do. I'd miss the stability of it. I certainly wouldn't miss the politics, or some of the unethical incompetents. I know I'm not perfect, but I do take pride in doing my job well...and it is both painful and infuriating seeing others coming in and bungling the same kind of work. It's worse when they've been told what to do (or not do) and refuse to change. Bah! Enough about that. Regardless, if I ended up moving, I'd have to look for a new job.

I'd done a bit of job hunting. I'd talked to a realtor before. I'd cleared out a lot of her stuff from the house. But in the last year, I've found myself unable to approach working on any of that. Sure, the thought has come to mind, but it always seems to slip away or get replaced by something else. Or I don't have the energy. Or I'm feeling sick. Or I need to do something else. I'd thought that once I was past the dark corridor from the end of September (our wedding anniversary) at least to the beginning of February (when she died), I might snap out of it. It hasn't worked out that way, though. That inertia, that lethargy, that resistance has continued. Up until a couple of days ago, I honestly had no idea why. I wasn't sure if I was just still running, if maybe I'd managed to “break” something in my heart or my brain. In my darker moments, I wondered if maybe this was all God was going to let me have now, and I should just be thankful there's not less.

And then, in one of the bleaker moments, one thing hit me. It wasn't a flash like lightning. It was a bit slower and a bit harder to accept. It was like the sudden flare of orange-red when the volcano on the far side of the valley suddenly blows its top at midnight. And the idea that came was: on some level, some part of me has been trying to hold & preserve a space for her to come back and fill. That thought rang true. It made my guts drop. For a little while, it banished any other thought from my head. And, dammit, it fit. No wonder I hadn't done more to sell the house. No wonder I hadn't boxed up or cleared out the last of her stuff. No wonder I hadn't been more active in looking for another job. If, on a gut level, some part of me still didn't want to accept that she was gone, it'd make sense to try to hold a space for her to come back to. A room for her to stay in. A house she could find. It's the same kind of logic that drives acts of sympathetic magic, where you do something to one part of a connected whole and it affects it all....even if all the pieces aren't in the same place.

The other, related idea has to do with pain. See, I'm not so sure that I would've been open to an idea like that if I hadn't been in such a bleak, painful place. I know several people that just want me to cheer up. I'm not sure if they really believe that's what's best for me or if it's just easier for them when I'm not hurting and so they want my pain to go away...for their sakes. Regardless, I don't think being happy or comfortable would have led—or maybe driven—me to that idea. I believe it took hurting and being sad and confused and afraid. Most importantly, I believe it took being willing to sit there with those feelings and not let them drive me away for that to happen. It was embarrassing, deeply embarrassing, to have to admit that might be the case. After all the work I've done on myself in the last couple years, and as much as I've talked about that work, that seems like a huge oversight. How could I not see that? And how could I be so immature, so needy, so insecure as to have that go on with me? My ego and pride took a real pounding when that idea came through. It still hurts to think about it now, though having had some time for it to settle in, it's not as bad.

There was a psychologist I knew once who'd said that, in therapy, he would always go to what hurts. It would usually be resisted, but it would also usually be either the core issue itself or the key to getting there. And being happy and cheerful doesn't have the same power to get us to move as being uncomfortable does. It sure doesn't for me. Those folks can be frustrated with me or pissed off at me when I don't suddenly become cheerful and positive when they want me to. I'm the one who has to get through this, and if it means hurting or being afraid or being sad....so be it. Much though I still love me darlin' wife, I will not follow the road she took. And I can't see living a life where I'm trapped and tormented by things I don't want to face because that'd mean not being happy or positive right now. Fuck that. The facade cracks, no matter how well it's maintained, and those demons are there, eating away from the inside. I'd rather get to where I'm whole and intact, in my heart and mind and soul, than to just look like and getting good at pretending I'm happy....while I'm decaying and dying inside.

Getting insights like those used to seem like something that'd make things suddenly better somehow. I'd understand what's going on, I'd have a handle on it, I'd have some control. I'd know what to do. Things would be come different, better. As I've gone through the last years, I've gotten to find out that's rarely the case. Sure, it makes things clearer, but it doesn't do anything, in and of itself, to change them. That's another issue in and of itself. It's the difference between seeing there's a way out of Hell.

And walking it.