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Too much!

•February 17, 2011 • 7 Comments

It’s all too much right now. This week has been very hard. No matter how much sleep I get, six hours a night or eight, I stumble through the work day in a fog of exhaustion and depression. Smiling and pretending to be OK nine hours out of the day wears me the hell out. I broke down in my therapist’s office last night and cried so much that my eyelids were still puffy this morning.

One thing I realized is that I’ve been trying to DO too much. So many things that I’ve wanted to do were on hold until I got a job and a new apartment.  As soon as I landed the job and moved into the new place, I started trying to tackle all of them at once. I’ve got a shopping list as long as my arm, while I’m stressing about how much I’ll be able to pay on my debt. I hate the way my clothes fit (or, more to the point, the way they don’t fit) and I really need to buy some new pants, but if I could just lose that extra five pounds… So I’m counting calories and trying to push myself to exercise, and I’m making budgets, and I’m checking items off lengthy to-do lists…

And it’s all too much. I’m crying “uncle.” Something’s gotta give.

My therapist pointed out that what I’ve done in the last month – starting a new job, finding an apartment and moving – would be tiring even without the added burden of grief and a very painful anniversary coming up.

Her prescription: Go back to taking it one day at a time. Stop pushing myself so hard. From now until the end of March, only minimum payments and minimal effort on anything other than self care. Go ahead and spend a little extra money on things that nourish my body and/or my spirit.

So, tonight I’m not doing a damned thing… except eating Chinese food, watching TV and drinking wine. And I’m thinking about some nurturing things I can do for myself this weekend…

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Solitude

•February 15, 2011 • 2 Comments

Depression has been stalking me since Sunday, and it finally caught up with me tonight. I just feel so heavy, like a huge weight is sitting on my chest. It’s hard to draw more than a shallow breath.

I put on Miles Davis (Kind Of Blue) and am trying to read May Sarton’s Journal of a Solitude again. I think it would be good for me to make peace with this solitary life instead of fighting it all the time. I used to crave solitude, desperately, like a brown and withered plant craves water. Now I drown in it after only a few hours and reach, gasping and sputtering, to the TV for company. It stops me from feeling so alone, but maybe it also stops me from feeling.

In the second entry of her journal, Sarton writes: “I go up to Heaven and down to Hell in an hour, and keep alive only by imposing upon myself inexorable routines.” I’ve been feeling the need for routine lately. The job gives me some structure, forces me out of bed by 6:00 a.m. five days a week, no matter how weary I am. When I’m busy at work, the days go by fast and being productive gives me a lift. The last few days there hasn’t been as much to do, causing both the clock and my spirits to drag. I build my weeknight routine around two things: support group on Monday and therapy on Wednesday. I figure I should be able to handle being alone on Tuesdays and Thursdays, but some nights are easier than others.

Weekends are the hardest. I’m still trying to find the balance there. Too much open-ended time is an invitation to loneliness and depression, but last weekend I kept myself so busy that I felt I hardly had a chance to relax at all. One routine I’m thinking of adopting is turning Sunday into cooking day, making meals that I can freeze in individual servings to be reheated during the week. That’s a solitary occupation that allows me some creativity and room to let my thoughts cogitate. I hadn’t done much cooking in a long time – Mike was the cook in our household, whipping up amazing seafood dishes and unique Asian-inspired meals – but I’m finding myself drawn to it again and wanting to expand my culinary repertoire. Besides, I’m sick to death of frozen dinners.

At my therapist’s suggestion, I’m also putting a bedtime routine into place. One hour before I need to be going to sleep, I turn off all screens (TV and computer), dim the lights, and read in bed for the rest of the evening. The idea is to transition my brain from active mode to sleep mode. So far I can’t see any improvement in my sleep, but I do look forward to having that hour with a good book every night.

Four pages further on in the Sarton journal, I find this: “The value of solitude – one of its values – is, of course, that there is nothing to cushion against attacks from within, just as there is nothing to help balance at times of particular stress or depression… But the storm, painful as it is, might have had some truth in it. So sometimes one has to simply endure a period of depression for what it may hold of illumination if one can live through it, attentive to what it exposes or demands.”

Indeed.  But I’m thankful I’ve got therapy tomorrow.

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Gifts of the heart

•February 14, 2011 • 6 Comments

I had coffee with a friend on Saturday.  We’ve known each other for almost ten years, and she’s one of the few people here in L.A. who knew me well before I met Mike.  In the course of our conversation, she brought up some of the positive changes she saw in me over the years I was with Mike.  I’ve found my voice, both in writing and just in life — I’m not afraid to speak up for myself anymore.  I’m more authentic, less apologetic.  She used to call me Tinkerbell, because I was sort-of waifish and fairylike, but she says I’ve become more “solid” over the years… and she was quick to emphasize that this was a positive thing and not a comment on my weight. “I’m less afraid to take up space,” I said, and she nodded. I’m also far more comfortable in my own skin, more secure with my body and my sexuality, than I ever was before.

When Mike entrusted me with his heart, he also gave me the gift of unconditional acceptance.  Before Mike fell in love with me, my self-esteem was pretty shaky. I felt like a freak (hello, I was still a virgin in my mid-thirties!) and doubted that any man would ever truly understand me, much less love me unconditionally. The enduring gift that Mike gave me comes down to this:  He showed me my own worth.

Saturday I received another gift, a housewarming present from Mike’s parents.

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The photo is one of our engagement portraits (we used a black & white version on the wedding invitations). I love the beautiful frame and matting, and the words went straight to my heart. I particularly appreciate that it says “once in a while,” rather than “once in a lifetime.” 

While I know I won’t ever love anyone else quite the way I loved (and still love) Mike, I also know that he didn’t give me the gift of unconditional love only to take it away from me when he died. It was a gift meant for me to keep always and to share with others. I can honor his memory not by cutting myself off from the possibility of loving again, but by keeping my heart open.

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Livin’ on the Edge

•February 7, 2011 • 4 Comments

I was telling my therapist last week that it must be frustrating for my brother to be around me because he can’t understand why I’m smiling and happy one minute, overwhelmed to the point of tears and temper tantrums the next. My therapist smiled. “Because I’m livin’ on the edge, man!” she said. “There’s no middle ground right now.”

It’s true. There isn’t. Right now, in the weeks leading up to the one-year anniversary of Mike’s suicide, I’m living in one extreme or the other. It’s either really good or really, really bad… and I can’t predict which it will be from one hour to the next. But I know a lot of people don’t get this. It isn’t just my brother. I can see it in the puzzled glances of my friends, feel it in the absence of certain people from my life.

Moving into a new place, trying to make a new home without Mike, is emotionally wrenching. Anyone who gets exasperated because I don’t have patience with the process, because I’m easily moved to frustration and tears, should try being me for one goddamned minute.

I just read something the other night about the Holmes-Rahe Scale, which ranks stressful life events by level of trauma. Guess what’s at the top of the list? Death of a spouse. And, surely, the death of a spouse by suicide magnifies the stress factor considerably. This wasn’t news to me, but it was rather validating. It told me that I have a right to still be falling apart nearly a year later, because THIS SHIT IS HARD. It’s the hardest thing I’ll ever have to do, and some days I don’t feel up to the task.

Just because I seem to be coping well, because I have good days and smile and laugh, does NOT mean that I’m back to “normal.” It doesn’t mean that the pain of losing Mike isn’t with me every single minute of every single day. It doesn’t mean you can expect me to behave as someone who isn’t still working her way through the most traumatic grief she will ever experience.

I learned not long ago that someone I’d considered one of my closest friends for years dumped me because she tried to reach out to me in the first weeks after Mike’s death and didn’t like the way I responded. I’m told she felt hurt and that she thought I was being selfish. Well, excuse me for not making you feel like an important enough player in this drama. News flash: IT’S NOT ABOUT YOU. The more I think about it, the angrier I get.

I’m dealing with this the best way I can. I’m drawing boundaries to protect myself, learning to ask for help and support when I need it, and being open and honest about where I am in my process. Anyone who can’t respect that doesn’t need to be a part of my life. As my friend Brad, who grew up in Georgia, so succinctly puts it, “Fuck y’all. All y’all.”

That’s one edge I’m on right now, hurt and angry and frustrated that people close to me don’t get it.  But of course they don’t. They’re the lucky ones who have never experienced anything even close to this kind of loss.

Then I slide over to the other end… and I feel such deep gratitude for all the people in my life who continue to show up for me. In my suicide survivors support group tonight, two recent widows shared about feeling cut off from their family and friends, feeling judged, completely lacking support. For all my frustration, it’s a relatively few people whose lack of empathy has hurt me. I’m surrounded by people who let me know they care, who listen when I need to talk, hold me when I need to cry, give up their Sunday afternoons to help me. This would be so much worse if I didn’t have all of you. I love y’all. All y’all.

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First day of the rest of my life

•February 5, 2011 • 1 Comment

I don’t know why it feels that way, but it does. I’ve been in this apartment almost a week now, but my brother was here for the first five days. Yesterday I jumped out of bed at 6:00 a.m., rushed off to work, and returned twelve hours later, exhausted. So today was my first chance to really experience being on my own in my new home.

I slept late, awaking gradually with several cups of green tea. After a breakfast of waffles with real maple syrup, Sheila and I took her dog for a nice long walk, several laps around the neighborhood park. In the afternoon, I treated myself to a massage. I had a lot of sore muscles from moving and my calves, in particular, had been whimpering about eight-hour days spent in high heels after all those trips up and down the stairs. I felt so relaxed when I came home, I put on my softest, fluffiest bathrobe and crawled into bed for a nap. But I found myself too energized to sleep, so instead I listened to some Miles Davis and read a couple of chapters in Elizabeth Gilbert’s latest book.

Around 7:30 I poured myself some wine and started to cook dinner: pasta that a friend sent from Italy with meatballs and vodka sauce from Trader Joe’s. I listened to Bach while I cooked, feeling more at peace than I have in a long while.

“It’s not bad, this brand new life. It’s clean and it’s sharp like a brand new knife.” That’s a line from a Melissa Etheridge song that I listened to over and over the last time I was setting up house on my own, nearly a decade ago. I was in my mid-thirties then and had never lived alone before, always with a roommate or a partner. I’d fled a toxic, codependent relationship after 17 years, moved from Minneapolis to California, and promptly fallen in love with my gay roommate, who turned out to have substance abuse issues. When that living situation fell to pieces, it was a relief to move into my own, peaceful space. I loved that place, and I loved living alone.

I’m not exactly loving it right now, to be honest, but it’s not bad. I’ve spent the evening nesting – unpacking photos and knick knacks, setting up my altars in the bedroom, beginning to put the stamp of my personality on these rooms. I have to keep reminding myself that there’s no rush, that if I feel overwhelmed it’s OK to stop and spend a few lazy hours just reading or watching TV. My friend Joy is coming over Tuesday evening to help me finish unpacking, and hopefully we can get the curtains hung in the living room, some pictures on the walls, etc. I’m beginning to have a vision for this space, and it’s going to be a lovely little nest when I’m done.

For right now, I think I’ll put my feet up and see what’s on TV.

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New Beginnings

•February 4, 2011 • 1 Comment

After weeks of unseasonably  warm weather, naturally it was cold and raining on the day I moved into my new place. Luckily I had lots of help and the move went quickly – three hours from time we pulled the U-Haul up to the storage facility until the last box was unloaded. There was only one stressful moment, when it looked like my fridge didn’t quite fit. The stress all came later.

That evening in the parking lot at Target, I flashed back to the day Mike and I moved in together, five years ago this month. Now that was a long, difficult move. Loading everything from my one-bedroom place in West Hollywood, a few things from his workshop, and everything from his apartment in Newhall took all day. By the time we got to our new home, it was late and both of our helpers had to bail. We pulled a futon mattress from the back of the truck in the rain (yes, it was raining that day too) and went to Wal-Mart to buy a couple of pillows and a blanket. I was exhausted and on my last nerve, but I stayed calm and tried to be cheerful. I didn’t want Mike to think that I was going to become whiney and demanding the minute we moved in together. And once I was snuggled up with him on that mattress on the floor, I didn’t care that the pillow was uncomfortable or that there was too much light from the parking lot below our bedroom window. All that mattered was that I was with the man I loved and we were starting a new life together.

Standing  in the Target parking lot on Sunday evening, poised again at the beginning of a new life, I could barely restrain the tears. When I made my bed that night and crawled between the soft sheets alone, there was no holding them back. The new space felt strange and lonely, and the bed was empty without Mike. I cried myself to sleep.

At Lowe’s the next day, picking out shelves for my new bathroom with my brother, the smell of sawdust triggered a powerful sensory memory – Mike in the garage, building guitar cases – and I was achingly aware of the void left by his death. I’ll never again chat with him while he sculpts or puts together a guitar or sketches a new design. He won’t be around to take my car in for repairs or run to the pharmacy for me when I’m sick. I’ll never again curl up in his arms and talk for an hour before we fall asleep. I miss my husband, damn it. I don’t want to start all over again, alone.

Tonight is my first night alone in the new place, and it’s hard not to give in to loneliness. I remind myself that I’m not really alone. I have my big brother, Thom, who drove up from San Diego and spent four days helping me get settled in, as well as the rest of my family. I have my best friend right across the street, many other good friends, a wonderful therapist, and my suicide survivors support group.

And the new place is already beginning to feel like mine, as one by one the boxes disappear and familiar furnishings fill the rooms. It’s bittersweet unpacking our wedding photos and placing the stemware we received as a wedding gift in the wine glass rack. But unpacking my mom’s good silver made me smile. I will make a home here… from the pieces of my life with Mike, pieces of my life before Mike, and pieces of life after Mike.

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Dream visitation #2

•January 25, 2011 • 4 Comments

Mike was in my dreams again last night – finally, the kind of dream visit I’ve been waiting for since last April! In the dream, he’d survived the suicide attempt and had been hiding away somewhere all these months, trying to heal. The bullet in his brain had caused permanent damage, and one side of his body didn’t work right — so part of his face was paralyzed, one shoulder was hunched up, and he had an awkward, lurching walk. It hurt to see him like that, but he was still my love.

When I heard he was still alive, I felt hopelessly conflicted. I still loved him so much and couldn’t wait to see him, but I knew I’d have to take care of him for the rest of his life due to his injuries and that I’d spend every day worrying that he’d try it again and complete the suicide next time. “I can’t go through it all again,” I wailed to Sheila. “I can’t do this!”

Then he was there, wearing a short-sleeved tan cotton shirt that I bought for him at Venice Beach our first year together. He held out his arms, saying apologetically, “I can’t dance anymore.” I said “That’s OK” and threw my arms around him. I noticed that his shoulders felt different, almost like he had a hunchback, but I didn’t care. I clung to him and we swayed clumsily in each other’s arms.

Then we sat down and talked for what seemed like hours. I got to tell him everything – how hurt I’ve been about losing contact with the kids and Aja wanting to take all his things away from me, how I’m coping, how very much I miss him. He called me the love of his life and said we could be “European lovers” now, i.e. not exclusive. He wanted me to find someone who could take care of me the way I deserve; he didn’t want to get in the way of that.

He wasn’t back to stay, but had just come to pick up some things he missed having – like his cello and some art supplies. I helped him carry the cello through the door. But he said he’d see me again soon. I felt an enormous sense of relief wash over me at that.

As I type this, I find myself remembering something a psychic medium told me years ago about how spirits who died under traumatic circumstances have to undergo a period of healing before they are able to communicate with the living. I don’t know if I believe in any of that now, but I do know that, like the dream visitation on April 30, this felt very different from an ordinary dream. The strong sense of Mike’s presence, the feeling that I’d actually been with him and talked to him, carried me through a hectic workday despite feeling physically under the weather. I still miss him terribly, but I don’t feel quite so alone.

What a gift. Thank you, my love.

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Falling down again

•January 23, 2011 • 1 Comment

As I’ve come to expect on this grief journey, my good week was followed by a couple of bad days. Friday evening I went with two friends to see “The King’s Speech,” which I found deeply moving. In the car driving home I started to cry… and I couldn’t stop for several hours.

This is an excerpt from a long letter I wrote to Mike in my journal that night:

“Dear Mike,

I miss you so much tonight. It’s been a good week. I’ve been busy with the new job and with friends, but in random moments I find myself in tears for no specific reason. Things are finally starting to go right for me, but there’s still so much that’s wrong. I’m watching people we both love come apart, and I feel helpless. It’s all I can do to hold myself together. I wish you were here so we could talk things over.

I miss coming home and telling you about my day. I miss holding you at night and falling asleep in your arms. God, how I miss that! I’m afraid my sexuality is dying, baby. My libido is just gone, permanently set on zero, and I can’t be bothered to try and do anything about that. While getting ready for bed tonight, I looked in the bathroom mirror and thought, ‘So what if I’ve got a poochy belly? I might as well give in and get fat, admit I’m middle aged. I’m going to be an admin assistant for the rest of my life and live alone with a cat. Why do I even try?’ I know that sounds whiny and self-pitying, and if you were here you’d call me out for my poor attitude. (Though if you were here, I wouldn’t feel this way.) But believe me when I say that men are hardly beating a path to my door… and that I hardly even care.

I dreamed about you the night before last. I don’t remember much about it. Sometimes it was you and sometimes Brad, but you were both wearing the same long-sleeved, button-down red shirt and talking about suicide. I can’t remember the last time you were in my dreams before that. Why don’t you come to see me in my dreams anymore, baby? Do you think there’s not room for you in my new life? You couldn’t be more wrong.

Some days the little things are enough – seeing the orange-gold early morning sky light up the highrises downtown or the full moon rising over the lake in Echo Park – but not always. Tonight there’s a hole in my heart and there’s nothing I can do to stop the bleeding… nothing that will ever be enough without you. I will always love you.”

Yesterday I woke up in a funk, still feeling lonely and bereft. I resisted the temptation to stay in bed all day and stuck with my plans to go hiking with Sheila. But the dark cloud never really lifted. I just faked my way through the day. Today I gave myself permission to lie around on the couch all day, watching football and reading.

And tonight my period started, almost a week ahead of schedule. Ah, so that’s where all this darkness is coming from. At least I can hope to get through it before moving day.

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Welcome Back to Life

•January 20, 2011 • 2 Comments

That’s what my friend Brad said when I announced my new job and my new apartment. “Welcome back to your life.” It feels good to be back. My life has pretty much been on hold since Mike died. I couldn’t think about the future, just existed day to day in a state of limbo for months. But now I’m putting together a structure for my new life, taking comfort in the routine of the new job — even though it means waking up ridiculously early in the morning. I’m beginning to see how I can build on what remains of my old life, adding new pieces to make a new life for myself… a life worth living.

The new job is going well. It’s comforting to be in a familiar environment (same company, even the same building where I worked from 2001 to 2008) and stimulating to be learning new things, stretching my mental muscles a bit. I like the people I’m working for, and I think I’ll be content in this position for a while.

It’s funny… When I left the company in 2008, I desperately wanted a change. I felt like the corporate world was leaching away at my soul, stealing my passion and creativity. I wanted to devote my energy to writing and to helping Mike launch his guitar business. I did those things. And I’m glad I did, even though leaving a steady job just before the economy took a nose dive wasn’t the smartest financial move I’ve ever made. I’m grateful that for the last two years of Mike’s life, I made our relationship and our shared creative dreams my number one priority. I’m deeply grateful for the richness of our time together during those years. I have no regrets about that. And now I can return to the corporate world with a new perspective. There’s a heady freedom in walking away from the 9 to 5 routine, but after having my world turned upside down, stability and structure look pretty good right now.

It’s wonderful to be back with my friends, too, and to know that this time I’m staying. The last week or so since I came back to LA, it’s been one social event after another. Happy hours, Sunday brunch, hikes with friends, parties, shows. I don’t have to be alone unless I want to be. Every night this week I’ve had dinner with a different friend, reconnecting and catching up on  what I’ve missed by being away so long — not just physically absent but mentally and emotionally checked out due to my grief. I’m fully back now, and several of my friends have told me that they can feel it, see the change in me.

It doesn’t mean I’m not still grieving, that I don’t still have some really bad moments. But there are a lot of happy moments, too, more and more of them as time goes on. I’m slowly coming back to life, and it feels good.

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Tripping down memory lane

•January 16, 2011 • 2 Comments

Last night one of the bands Mike used to play in had a gig, their first in two years. I wanted to go, but I wasn’t sure how difficult it might be for me, emotionally. I’d never seen them without Mike. I went back and forth about it all day, until I finally decided to just put on waterproof mascara and face whatever emotions it might stir up.

For the most part, it was a good night. Everyone in the band was happy to see me and, perhaps, a little surprised that I’d come. It was great reconnecting with people I haven’t seen in ages, who had once been a regular part of our social circle. Soon after I arrived, one of the guitarists pulled me aside to tell me he thinks about Mike all the time. They were friends for a long time, so this wasn’t unexpected, but it was still nice to hear. He told me he’d wanted to work up a version of “Wish You Were Here,” which he and some other musician friends played at Mike’s memorial service, to play with the band… but they couldn’t get it together in time for this gig. Maybe next time. I love that idea, but I’m glad I’m forewarned and can come armed with kleenex.

The band was tight and really rocked the packed house. Though I missed Mike’s sax, I was glad that they’d brought in a harmonica player instead of replacing him with another sax player. There were only a couple of songs that were hard to  hear, and my good friend Carlana was there to squeeze my hand and remind me of a funny incident so that I laughed through my tears. So many memories in that place, with that band…

The first time I was ever introduced in public as Mike’s girlfriend.

The first time I met his kids, and spent the whole evening dancing with 11-year-old Aja.

My 40th birthday party, when Mike surprised me by having the band play a song he wrote for me. This picture was taken that night…

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I look at it and remember how happy he made me, how very special and cherished I felt that night. I remember how we danced together during all the songs that didn’t feature his sax, and another night when Mike pulled me up onstage to dance with him. That was the night that some random stranger approached us on a set break to say what a cute couple we were. Are you married? she asked. With a big grin, Mike answered, “Tonight we are!”

It was a little trippy to be approached last night by fans of the band, people I didn’t know from Adam, who wanted to tell me how sorry they were to hear about Mike’s passing and to ask if I’m OK. But it’s nice to know that people remember him, even some four years after he left the band. The bandleader (and lead singer) summed it all up with three words, spoken into my ear as he hugged me goodnight: “I miss Mike.”

We all missed him last night. But he was there in spirit, and we all felt it.

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