The other side

Dec. 6, 2006

The first day of the rest of my life and I spent it sleeping. Typical. Actually, the first few days were spent sleeping. I’d like to think that I was exhausted from the emotional journey I had just been down, but I don’t believe that is the case. Instead, I spent an entire week asleep because I wasn’t sure how I was going to move on. The trial was over. The task at hand had been completed. My mission: accomplished.
Yet, my mind kept drifting back to the last moment I saw him. The last moment I would ever see him. Instead of lying in a casket, he wore shackles. Instead of hearing the sounds of organ music, the smell of flowers, his funeral took place in a courtroom that wafted of anger, betrayal, and vindication. Confusion. This was my own emotional staple.
Just like a well-adjusted victim, I walked through the motions; accepting the embraces of my loved ones, laughing in the face of my own hidden tears, trying to look as though I had the rest of my life completely figured out. “If I can fool myself, then surely, I can fool them.” And that is precisely what I did.
I am currently six years into the next chapter of my life. The previous chapter is visited often, thought of regularly, a daily presence in my attempts to continue on my current journey. It haunts me. It mocks me. I think of the young woman I was, standing in the courtroom, wise beyond my years, yet as naive as a child. It was that young woman who woke up, five days after the trial with the notion that nothing “bad” would ever happen to her again. I adopted a theory, or perhaps, I had dreamed it up. It was brilliant. It was a wonderful notion that balanced perfectly between simplicity and abstract thought.
“Everyone is born with a basket”, I thought.
“And it is in these baskets, of differing sizes and depths, that we put our ‘stuff.’”
“Some people are born with tiny baskets, others with large ones. Terrible things happen, atrocious things, but we are never given anything that cannot fit into our baskets.”
It was a notion that got me through the next few years. I knew that God would never give me anything else. “My basket is full. It is smooth sailing from here on.”
Such naiveté.
Yet, the past six years have not been smooth sailing. In fact, the waters have been rough, sometimes almost unbearable. Memories of past lives are hard to tame. I am expected to move beyond them. I am expected to forget. Expectations such as these have caused many transformations to occur. I have been angry. I have been bitter. I have been in places so subterranean, it is hard for me to even imagine.
Change was inevitable. And, to be expected, I have grown over the past six years. I have grown emotionally, spiritually. I have also grown apart. Distance: My newest of coping mechanisms. I have distanced myself from the ones who are getting too close. I never want to be let down again, never want to be confused again.
My best friend once told me about a love so incredible, so connected. It was a love shared by her grandparents. She told me about a dream she had. In the dream, she was with her grandmother, after her grandfather had passed. In her dream, she saw her grandmother, so lost without her companion. She couldn’t imagine loving someone so much, couldn’t envision such an experience: losing the person who fulfills you. She spoke these thoughts to her grandmother, only to hear her grandmother say, “I hope you never do experience this.”
We marveled at this dream. The words entangled together in a web of many meanings. Were they intended to keep her from getting too close to others, to protect her from such anguish? Was she merely letting her know the true depths of her sorrows, praying that her granddaughter never feel the same? Distance, for me, has allowed love to be an option. A yes or no box I am able to check in and check out of. Loving and being loved scares me more now than ever. Self doubt and sheer anxiety keep me from pursuing the things I once believed I could accomplish.
Six years ago, the young woman, tired and frail, but full of ambition. Full of hope. That young woman is gone, for now, replaced by a woman who must continue to travel, on to the other side of the mountain, and must be a bit jaded to do so. Six years ago, I was hoping for a happy ending to this story. Now, I am simply hoping to continue the journey.
I buried my father in the year 2000. I tried to bury my pain, my past, with him. Since that day, my life has been bombarded with a series of attempts. I try to move on. I try to trust others. I try to love, unconditionally, and long to be loved in the same way. I try to be a good friend. I try to be compassionate and forgiving. I try to be normal. I try not to cry. I try to let others in. I try not to distance myself. I often fail with that one. I try to be available. I try not to be “too available.” I try to be strong. I try to be open. I try to be a good mother. I try to be a shoulder for others. I try to find balance, and in doing so, peace. I may not have accomplished all, or any, of these things, but I try. I continuously try to continue to survive. The journey is far from being over, but I am far from giving in.