This morning, as Shy lay curled in a tiny, furnacy heap pressed against the side of my head, I dreamed I was in a small overgrown field, probably where a building once stood, and opposite a dingy motel in a crappy little town. In the field with me were a handful of transients, men and women about my age who seemed to be between things. Not homeless, per se, but hanging out, waiting to see what came next. They had long, matted hair and flowing tie-dye shirts, like a lost tribe of Dead Heads. I was not part of their posse, but I was clearly in the field because I was in transit, too: on my way to somewhere but I don’t know where, or from whence I had come.
It was dusk. I was looking towards a car that was pulling up along side the field’s edge. The car’s headlights were in my eyes. Once they shut off, I saw my mother behind the wheel. And behind her, in the back seat, was Andy. I felt a surge of mixed emotions – fury that it was her who had saved him from wherever he had been. (I didn’t think of him as dead; I thought of him as having been somewhere awful, like prison.) I didn't trust her motives for saving him. But whatever they were, the result was that Andy was back! Which brought the other emotion: joy!
Andy looked so young, in his 20’s, and small. My height. But he still had the quiet, commanding presence of an older brother. After we hugged, which he simply took in stride, as if he’d never been gone, he went over to the motel to get a room for the night. For some reason, there was no question of my joining him, so I waited in the field. Soon after, though, he called me on a cell phone to tell me that the previous occupants of the motel room had left a pile of clothes that he thought I would like/need. Being in the filed without a suitcase, I was grateful indeed, and so touched that Andy was aware of my needs after only seeing me for a few minutes.
He brought the clothes back to the field. A pile of pants from the Gap, most of which were classic enough that I liked them, with a few pairs looking out of date but I didn’t care. I was so moved by Andy’s thoughtfulness.
Once back in the field with me, Andy started to rally the troops to build a bonfire from all the scraps of garbage strewn in the tall grass. Most of it was plastic. The pile got quite large, and I said to Andy that it was a bad idea to burn it because the plastic would release toxins into the air and likely draw the attention of the police. Andy didn’t seem bothered by either potential outcome. He somehow indicated to me that it was more important that the people in the field felt empowered to do something for themselves. He was giving them a purpose and a reason to work together. They all seemed really happy to build the fire. I stayed on the periphery of the activity, feeling like an outsider, observing, worrying. While I watched, I felt a profound love for Andy for the way he was taking care of us all but mixed with anger that he was not recognizing the danger he was potentially putting everyone in.
Andy got a young blond man with dreadlocks and a giant smile to light the fire. He seemed like the leader of his group. I could see he felt useful and needed. And then we heard sirens. I was terrified they would take Andy away again. But I was more afraid for my own well being, so I backed away from the bonfire and the group and tried to become inconspicuous in the tall grass. The siren turned out to be an ambulance, and not headed for us. Andy pointed to the fire, which was not as big as we all thought it would get, and looked over to where I was hiding and said, “See, you had no reason to worry.”
But I do worry.
I worry that I am utterly stalled. Stranded, even. Shipwrecked on this slippery rock I call my life. While the waters around me teem with friends who have growing and thriving families, and partners who get their backs, and careers that have become sanctuaries, I feel my little rock submerging under the weight of my loneliness, which I naively thought would have a shelf life. I thought by now I would have a family of my own, a partner with whom I would feel safe and loved, and a career that would reflect my passion and instill in me a sense of profound confidence, of knowing my place in the world.
In my better moments, I understand that I am free. Free to create what I want, where I want, when I want. In my more positive moments, I am the first person to spread the message of love and hope to my friends and family, encouraging them to take risks and follow their bliss. But those moments are growing fewer and farther between.
While I was living in Ottawa the first few months after Andy’s death, I believed that once the crisis had passed, I would be able to do anything. I would paint. I would finish my book. I would write articles for Oprah or some other magazine.
Friends have long chided me for being Ms. Chirpy-go-Happy in my posts, a cheerleader hopped up on psychic wheat grass. Some have been downright angry at my commitment to creating my own joy, especially when they are feeling particularly victimized in their own lives. Well, those friends can now rest easy. Because I’m too tired to bother with my happiness right now. And, despite everything I know and believe about my own power in the world, I feel victimized by the world.
When Andy died, it put my own sadness into perspective. It was a like a frank slap on the face, even making me giddy for a while. The worst had happened, so what couldn’t I face? What couldn’t I do? But when I returned to Toronto three months later, even my new townhouse could not buoy me. The world was my oyster but I just wanted to crawl into my shell.
Andy built his plane in 22 months, so why can't I get a simple article written in a month? I write for everyone else – for websites, for newsletters, for work emails, for everything and everyone but for me. There’s nothing outrageous about my goal to be published in a magazine, but it seems a herculean task to write and submit an article. Instead, I write for my blog, which feels safer. Who cares if no one reads it or likes it? I’ll never have to know . . .
The truth is, I feel sorry for myself. There, I said it. And I know that this, too, is part of the grieving process and will pass. But feeling sorry for myself is not a result of Andy’s death. It has shadowed me my whole life. In the last seven years, I have worked hard to mitigate those feelings, to demonstrate to myself that there is nothing standing in the way of my joy but me. And, truthfully, I have succeeded in not just seeing that but knowing that and experiencing that. And I do know it will be that way again.
But right now, I’m angry, and I’m hurting, and I feel utterly alone. No one talks to me about Andy except my family. And the worst part is, I get it. Before Andy died, I had no idea what this would feel like, so I had no idea how to comfort friends who’d lost family members. It’s like becoming a member of a secret club that the rest of the world reviles because they not only don’t understand you, they don’t want to understand you. Death is that terrifying -- it's like a disease no one wants to catch, even though we all do catch it. So, I keep my sadness locked up with my dog in my new townhouse. Poor Shy.
I wrote this post because I want to scream. I am not just some faith-shilling, fairy-dust supplying believer in the power of self actualization (I mean, I am, just not all the time). I am many other things as well, including dark sides that I keep writing about and then erasing lest my readers think I'm insane. I feel insane. But something in me is urging me to get this down and get it out. It could be a huge mistake, but these days I just don't care. These days, my sadness has taken the form of outrageous jealousy over other people's fortunes -- new families, new loves, growing families, great careers, you name it, I have a jealousy for it. I could paint this town every shade of green right now.
I'm tired of losing things -- my house, my stuff, my brother, love. I'm tired of keeping up a bright appearance in the face of it all so that I am not a burden to others.
Maybe if I write it, I can exorcise it.
Not that it matters. Because I've been here before, and whether I'm in an envious place or a centred place, I do my grieving and self work alone. I am the tree no one hears falling in the forest.
How I wish someone would come into the forest and watch me fall. Or, even better, stand beside me so that I don't fall. How I long for someone to lean into me for a good long while so that I might take root again.
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