Posts Tagged ‘loss’

19
Jan
2018

depression

categories: me

It didn’t happen all at once.

The pieces seemed small and unrelated–a quilt that hadn’t yet been sewn to make a cohesive thing.

I couldn’t leave the house without makeup.

I didn’t know it was one thing. I chalked it up to the move, to my new job, to my sudden weight gain and physical discomfort.

I watched the scale tip slowly toward a number I’d never seen before, packed bags of too-small shorts for the thrift store, ordered secret clothes online and hid them in my closet.

It seemed like a myriad of things–a response to stressful life circumstances.

I cringed at the bling sound of texts, the flood of my inbox, looking at my calendar would send my stomach into knots and my heart racing.

It never occurred to me to call it something. It never dawned on me that my behavior was becoming distant, dissonant, even to me. My sense of identity, of belonging, my sense of self.

I would fantasize about cancelling engagements, come up with lies to get out of meals, shows, dinners, walks, trips. I didn’t want to see or be seen.

It didn’t manifest in a day–it slowly came over me, covering me like a heavy quilt until I felt cradled by it, enveloped by it, identified with it, as it.

I’d talk about wanting to get better but sink into self-doubt and confusion trying to name what I needed to get better from.

Friends started commenting on my inability to sit still–a paper was misplaced and needed to be straightened, a crumb was in sight and needed to be swept.

I stayed up at night–every creak of our old house sent shivers down my spine. I knew it was an intruder. I scanned the room for objects that could be used as weapons. I slept with the bathroom light on.

It never occurred to me that my growing social anxiety and paranoia could be related. That my low self-esteem and my desire to binge-watch t.v. could be interconnected. Pain masked by habit, fear disregarded as a side-effect.

I knew people with depression. That wasn’t me.

I’m a normal person. I exist in this world with the same number of problems as anyone else, probably less. I’ve got a great partner, a wonderful kid, a job I like.

 

21
Jan
2016

packing is like…

categories: new york
  • Being in school–there’s always more homework, even after you think you’re done.
  • Starving yourself to death–slow and painful.
  • Eating a wretched 12-course meal–it just keeps coming and it’s all terrible.
  • Planning a wedding–with the invites and the rentals and the in-laws and the dress…
  • The worst thing ever.

 

21
Dec
2015

oh, boy

categories: california, me, new york

so, i’m having one of those days. you know the kind. maybe i’m having one of those weeks, even. where punctuation just seems superfluous and getting dressed feels like an overwhelming task. forget showers. and, who needs makeup these days? i don’t know exactly why. moving stress. pressure to see people and do things. keeping track of way too many things in my brain: moving van, packing materials, medical records, refilling prescriptions, selling this dresser, giving this shelf away, bringing these four bags to the thrift store, bringing this box to the used book store, scheduling dental appointments, finishing up work tasks, doing all those last-minute new york city must-do things! it’s just too much. and, we’re trying to be all on top of shit by packing early but really we just keep spending time with our friends because…when will we see them again?! and, you know, we’re not cooking enough and we may have gotten rid of our plates a tad too early and we can’t replace the grapeseed oil because how can we go through a bottle in 3 weeks but also HOW WILL I MAKE POPCORN?!

so, i think it’s safe to say that the stress has officially gotten to me.

i’m not sleeping, i’m eating a lot of chocolate and my belly has that constant butterfly feeling like i’m about to get onstage and perform.

we got a tree. i thought it would make me feel all, in-the-spirit and festive. i just keep looking at that thing with total animosity. it’s got a real attitude problem, let me tell you. it’s just sitting in the corner of our livingroom being all beautiful and put together, staring into our chaos and judging. it’s a judgy little fucker, i mean it. tall, perfectly “tree”-shaped (some might say a bit too perfect, really. i mean, come on. show off), it’s all sparkly and calm and it just stands around. doesn’t offer to help out or pick up. it’s not doing any of the cooking and that bitch can drink! i mean, we are filling her bucket up at least once a day.

so between my judgy tree and the million tasks i’m attempting to stay on top of and still working full-time and a toddler who is becoming less and less comfortable with her dwindling book collection…things are about to get real. like, life is changing in a huge way ‘real’. like, everything you have known and everything you thought you wanted is about to be in your past ‘real’. like, the place you ran from, the place you thought you would never return to is about to be your future ‘real.’ and, truthfully it all sounds a bit terrifying. wonderful and filled with potential. exciting and exhilarating. and also gut-wrenchingly terrifying.

08
Dec
2015

in a parallel universe

categories: alzheimers, new york

I recognized it immediately–the gentle, familiar nudges and consoling words whispered in her ear. The way he held tightly to her arm and corralled her in the right direction. The way he looked up pleadingly, embarrassed, overwhelmed. The way she pulled away from him–dark, hollow eyes, seeing but not seeing, knowing only that she must flea–from what or whom she’s not sure, just that she must get away, from him, from herself from this confusion, from this dark, smelly place. Where am I? She must have thought, hearing the screech of the Q train in the distant tunnel. Who are these people? She must have wondered, feeling the staring faces of nervous strangers on her.

Did you ever see Defending Your Life? It’s a film about this guy who has never done a particularly good or brave thing in his entire existence. Therefore, he has to prove that he deserves entry into heaven. I think of that movie often. The way they played scenes from his childhood like it was a TV show. Intimate moments, fights, embarrassments. All if it caught on film. Well, the collective pearly gate “film reel”–for purposes of standing on trial to determine where you belong in the afterlife.

I thought about that movie today when I held a strangers’ baby while she battled her stroller, when I helped a woman get through the turnstile with her giant bags and scooter, when I co-carried a woman’s stroller up three flights of stairs, when I looked on and did nothing for the old man struggling to get his wife off the subway platform.

Couples kissing, homeless men shuffling, men in suits texting, mothers with children held tightly to their chests, but no one, not one single offer of help. Standing on the downtown platform I wavered. Run up the stairs and over to the uptown side, ask if they need help? Risk spiraling into my own darkness, risk offending, risk an empty offer if I can’t actually help to physically carry her out? As my train screeched to a halt, I watched the couple disappear. He’d managed to calm her, they sat side by side on the bottom of a dirty stairwell. Bodies piled alongside them, figures moving, but unmoved, seeing but not seeing.

What will those strangers’ movies look like when they’re defending their lives? Will they be reminded of the time they left two elderly humans to struggle on their own, two helpless, frightened people to fend for themselves? Or, will this play out only in my own reel? Because, I alone saw, I knew what I was seeing. And, yet, I boarded my train, I sipped my coffee, I got to work on time and lived my life.

05
Dec
2015

pre-nostalgia

categories: new york

Standing outside a dark, gothic church, on a granite sidewalk, staring into warmly lit brownstones across the way. A thick sandwich–fluffy white roll and a large chunk of meat, with just a sliver of lettuce and tomato. There are a multitude of small moments, sights, sounds, tastes–that are distinctly New York. The meat-heavy sandwich, the stone sidewalks, the silhouetted skyline, the people passing by, all of it, only here in this place. There will be new sounds, new faces, new smells that will stick to the insides of my nostrils and adhere themselves to my memories–creating with them a new sense of home, a new aura of self. But these things, these belong to New York City alone. These sensations and sights, these cobblestone streets and gas lamps. These are the romantic images of films, the backdrops of prom photo booths–this is the living, breathing snapshot of New York. No late-summer garbage reek can taint this image. No crowded subway car–hands groping, men preaching, women screaming, people begging–can erase this experience. No neighbors’ blaring talk show radio or NYU drunken frat boy, no snowy March day or shit-filled puddles can diminish this sparkle, this brightness, this feeling of belonging and centeredness.

There are two New Yorks: the one you live in and the one you dream of living in.

It’s the latter that breaks your heart. And, that’s the one you imagine you’ve always lived in, that’s the one you remember and mourn after you’ve gone. Even if that New York was really just a figment of your imagination.

25
Aug
2015

on grief

categories: commune, family

The funny thing about missing someone is that the sadness creeps in when you least expect it.

Last night I scoured the iTunes rentals for a fun Sunday night movie. On the hunt for a cheesy rom-com, as always. I love a good preview, so even after finding a few promising candidates, I continued to browse. About ten seconds into the preview for Salt I found myself tearing up. What is wrong with me? I thought. The Chris Farley documentary certainly, and rightfully, had tugged at the heart strings. But, an action film with some appalling rotten tomato score?

“We have to rent this,” I told my husband. “This is exactly what I want to watch tonight.”

My mom loved action films. And, that affection has definitely been passed down to me. Car chases can feel a little snoozy to me but otherwise, I am all in. I love the good guys beating the bad guys. I love a really well-delivered, cheesy one-liner. I love the exceptionally planned, choreographed fight scenes. The cinematography, the beautiful women, the exotic locations. I love the way vengeance is always a huge part of the plot line and how there’s always some super messed up character who’s flaws both get them into trouble but also, inevitably, help get them out of it.

I love the predictable arc, the (mostly) bad acting, the explosions and the being on the edge of my seat. I love the plot twists and the inevitable happy ending. I’m telling you, action films are really the best genre out there. They’ve got it all: mystery, romance, adventure. You cry, you laugh, you can experience every emotion in the course of two hours.

My mom and I used to stay up late watching Lethal Weapon, Die Hard and Beverly Hills Cop over and over again. The originals and all subsequent sequels. We’d re-watch all the Bond films and the variety of actors who played him over the course of the decades. Speed, Terminator, Total Recall, Enemy of the State, Bad Boys, Air Force One…she’d have loved the Bourne trilogy. Oh man, that would have been really fun to watch with her.

I don’t quite understand what it was that drew my uber-intelligent, sophisticated mom to the genre. Perhaps it was for all the same reasons I like it. Whatever the case, it was our special thing. Something we could do and enjoy together. Just the two of us.

Four of us girls had rooms in an upstairs space originally designed to be my father’s art studio. It had once been a giant, cavernous hall. When they built an entire barn (complete with a recording studio, library, three offices and a bright, open-plan painting space) to house my dad and his many obsessions, he graciously gave up his indoor studio so that five of us could move out of one room. The floor was divided into four tiny, strangely angular but glorious abodes. We got to choose which room we wanted based on age. I had third pick. I chose the “triangle room.” There was only one right angle in the entire space. And, it was full of small, unusable corners. It was amazing and I loved every inch of it.

There was a little lounge area — a living room of sorts — at the top of the stairs. It was probably about a 4×8 foot space. We’d squeeze in there, mom and I, squished up against each other on a beanbag on the floor, staring up at our small television screen perched (rather precariously) at the edge of the stairwell. There weren’t a lot of shared spaces amongst the kids and adults. This was a modest, carved-out space where we could just be. Together. Away from the chaos.

Inevitably, she would get called down for one reason or another throughout the course of the movie. Often, she would get into trouble because they couldn’t find her and no one thought to look up in the kids’ area until it was too late — dad had already lost his temper. She needed to (immediately) call so and so back about a painting sale, check the status of a bank account with her name on it, write a letter to my grandmother explaining why we needed more money, reach out to the local shops regarding donations, cold call the celebrity names (and numbers) we’d finagled out of a friend…there was always something that she needed to handle. Something only she could do. For whatever reason. And, someone was always in a rampage about it.

She would obediently head downstairs to put out the fire. Then, she’d sneak back upstairs, knock on my door and say, “Wanna watch a movie?” We’d put on a film — knowing she’d be called away half a dozen more times before the credits were rolling — and lay back, me eating a bowl of buttery popcorn and pretending, the both of us, that we were some normal family.

30
Jul
2015

but, you’re so young…

categories: me

…and other things you should never say.

Full disclosure: I have said pretty much all of these things.

1. “But, you’re so young…” Shit happens. At any age. Don’t make someone feel crappy for having to deal with something terrible when they’re young. A dying parent, a chronic illness. This remark provides zero consolation and is a relative term that only proves you yourself have probably not had to deal with anything serious in your lifetime. Mazel tov. Keep it to yourself.

2. “The only thing that matters is that you and the baby are healthy.” Do NOT say this to a woman who has had an unplanned cesarean birth. It will make her feel like shit. It is not the only thing that matters. It is the most important thing, sure. But, do not diminish her (very valid) feelings by saying they aren’t relevant. It is possible to feel elated and heartbroken all at once. Let her know it’s okay to be sad. It’s normal to be upset when your birth plan does not go according to plan. Especially when your birth plan does not include being so high on special K that you do not even remember the moment your child came out of your body.

3. “You do not look (insert age here).” This is not a compliment. It is another way of saying, “you’re old but you don’t look too bad.” It’s shitty. Don’t say it. Not to a 30-year-old not to a 60-year-old. Just don’t. This goes for, “You look great for your age,” too.

4. “That must have been really hard.” If you are saying this, the answer is probably, “Yes, it was unbelievably, fucking hard.” Don’t tell people how they are feeling. Don’t project your judgment on their lives. Listen. If they’re struggling to name their emotions feel free to offer an adjective. Otherwise, just listen. Repeat their feelings back to them.

5. Don’t ask a million questions when someone doesn’t fit your model of “normal.” It’s offensive. It makes people feel like a freak in your personal freak show. Gender identity, sexual preferences, lifestyle choices…it’s just peoples lives. That’s all. It doesn’t feel weird for them. They exist in the world much in the same way you do (alone, misunderstood, taken for granted). Their choices, their childhoods, their preferences, theirs. Unless they’ve opened themselves up to the conversation, it’s off-limits. If you need drama, watch reality television. I can’t tell you how many nights I have spent providing the freak-cult-girl entertainment at parties. It’s exhausting.

6. This is not about saying the wrong thing. It’s about saying nothing. When a person loses someone they love don’t ignore them. Don’t assume that bringing it up will only upset them. Mention their loved one by name, in fact. Say something as simple as, “I’m so sorry for your loss.” Don’t pretend it isn’t happening. It’s the worst feeling in the world to be grieving for someone you love and to feel like no one around you has even noticed. Too often we worry about being insensitive or hurting someones feelings after a death. More often than not, it is the silence that is the most painful. I don’t know anyone who has lost a loved one and wanted silence. Parent, child, sibling, grandparent, friend. It’s terrible to be going through the world feeling empty and also feeling like everyone else is just the same, going about their business like your mom didn’t just die. It’s nice to know your pain and grief aren’t being ignored. It’s important to know that others miss them too. “I’m so sorry for your loss. Let me know if there’s anything I can do.” I don’t care if you mean it or not. Just say it. And, in the off-chance that a grieving person is capable of asking for specific help, do it. You will never feel better about yourself. Bringing a new parent a meal is wonderful. Bringing a grieving person a meal is unforgettable. They will never forget that kindness.