Yesterday was the best I've felt in a long time. By that I mean weeks. I finally had a day that was light, didn't make me feel weighted down with pressures and demands, and ugly feelings of depression that just won't loosen their grip on me. I knew I was having a good day when I managed to tap my foot to the music I plugged myself into on the light rail. Never mind the guy next to me, the homeless man laughing at nothing at all.He sat down next to me and proceeded to giggle at seemingly nothing, although who knows what he was aware of that I wasn't. At first this unnerved me, but after a while I began to wonder who had the problem. He who could laugh for no obvious reason? The giggler who randomly let his happiness, or madness, out in public? Or me, who couldn't belly-laugh at anything anymore. Natural, unforced joy seemed to be sucked out of me, like the ability to find happiness in anything anymore.
When he exited the train, he skipped off into the sunrise. Possibly hungry, tired, in need of a shower, clothes, medical care. But nonetheless joyful and appreciative of the day. Of course, I'm no judge of what true madness looks like. I just know that at a glance, dude looked way happier than me.
A white girl... ok, woman, whatever...dressed somewhat fashionably, clean, smelling way better and no chuckling at nothing. I look pretty good to anyone judging our wellness, stability, etc. I'd win that contest, but if his life is in the shitter and he can gaffaw at it, then who's winning?
Anyway, getting back to how good I was feeling that morning, I recognized this was not a common occurrence of late, and I tried to relish the feeling of peace and contentment. Happiness to be enjoying a song and being able to go with the intent of it. I mean, if you're like me, you too believe music is an expression that has resulted from a passion for something, and the artist wants to invoke feelings in others that are similar to his/her own. If sharing that particular mood reaches across the boundaries of whatever -- age, status, gender, etc. -- then the artist has managed to do something that only someone talented can do.
So now I'm thinking of Prince, whose death has affected me. Again, another musician whose music touched me, and with their passing, I worry if one fewer talent in the world means I, we, risk experiencing beauty from their form of expression. I mean, we've lost Roger Nelson, Michael Jackson (love him or not), David Bowie, to name a few. They can't be replaced, so I worry that those who come up behind them won't hit the mark.
Losing my Dad this February has somewhat paralyzed me. But anyone who has experienced grief knows the feeling. Similar to losing a performer I feel the same way about losing him, of course more intensely. Because now that he's not in this world, there's a little less beauty in it for me. And I know he didn't intend to take that with him, being the altruistic man he was, but his absence on the planet is a loss for many. I know I'd be allowed to speak for Mom and my two sisters. But I would also venture to guess that others will feel his absence. Like ours, their daily experience will be a somewhat bleached out, pale compared to the vibrance and color he contributed in his small, quiet way. The man never had to have the spotlight, but his smile, laugh, and rare commentaries, his just plain pleasantness made being around him a delight.
I've been unable to write for so long, but beside the daily demands of living, work, family, his death has zapped the desire to communicate how I feel. I don't want to talk about how bad I feel, but the truth is it's been a daily battle to get out of bed and get through an entire day without crying, having a full-on meltdown, or worse because I haven't found me way back to zero. The deficit that you'll find me at now is at a new low. Not permanent, I'm sure, since grief alone doesn't take you out forever. Or at least, that's what I believe. I think grief is the wound that permits other ailments of the psyche or soul to metastacize into unrecoverable depression, or worse.
I just want to get back to zero, so each day I have the opportunity to make it a surplus day emotionally. So I can begin without that heaviness, that sadness that grips you, and prevents you from building on a kernel of happiness. It feels a bit a like bondage, being shackled to the grief that you can rationalize away, but can't fend off because it affects the heart so strongly. What's been keeping me going and providing me with a false pretense of normalcy is my firm grasp on feeling gratitude for what I have in each moment.
Since February 8, the horrible day of Dad's surgery, which by the way was a success at the time I have had to actively find a reason to be thankful for what I have in my life. The feeling of dread that had locked itself around my heart, and head, doesn't go quietly without work, effort on my part, to loosen it's grip. And the only way to do that is to acknowledge every stinking little thing that works. Even if it does go a bit haywire, I recognize that it could always be worse!
When the car that randomly refuses to start fires up each morning, I say "thank you" out loud. When I make it through an intersection before the red, I'm good. When I grab a seat on the train that isn't next to an undesirable co-passenger, I say "amen." When my workday doesn't make me want to weep, I feel a momentarily victorious. And when I make it to the game to walk up while my son hits a bomb to left field, I feel euphoric for having the fortune of witnessing the moment. Of course, when he's picked off at third base, I'm back to wallowing in the darkness of my day. But that golden moment reminds me there will be more moments like it.
The work is worth it. Every conscious thought. It's what is responsible for more sanity and outward appearance of normal. So when I don't have to play the "could be worse" game, I'm happier still. The effortlessness of the emotion, of not having to conjure it with the rational that for this I need to thank my lucky stars.
Friday was a good day. Ok, honestly, the start to a good day. But Friday morning encourages me. Gives me hope that I will come out of this place of emptiness, hopelessness. If I could enjoy Prince's Erotic City this morning, there was hope for me. I allowed the music to take me back. I remembered how carefree I was the decade it was released. The same time I was not worrying about Dad's health, or Mom's sanity following Dad's death. I was reminded of worry-free I was at one time, and how even then I knew things would change with the years. So what? That's life, right? Who says you get a gold star or Honorable Mention for getting through life without falling apart sometimes. To think so is bullshit. Maybe there's hope for me yet.
