We’re Paralyzed, We Apologize
At the beginning of This Life, the one that started after the suicide, there was a fluffy, muffled energy around me that allowed survival and maternal instinct and little else. Food was fuel, alcohol was medicine and friends stood by waiting for It to break open. I admit to being only partly aware of this, the Shock; there were accusations, in- and external, of a certain coolness, an unsettling sarcasm and bitterness that didn't quite fit the situation but were nonetheless in charge and unflinching in their sharpness and projection. The Body merely functioned; the Soul hibernated and took the Spirit with it. I did not complain.
The Routine became routine and lost two dimensions; it showed the Body the ropes and before long, I had proven myself to be the Manager that I knew I could be: Teach well and delegate most so that personal involvement stays minimal whilst reaping the benefits, which in my case was a House of Steel Cards, an organized habitat to remain unbreeched for as long as I could contain it. Bills were paid, plans were made and I kept on, I ran on fumes until the universe threw in a Wall called Marc and forced me to look, really look, at what had happened and to examine my role in it, either to condemn myself or absolve Brian and it's only now that I can see that only one of those things needed to happen before the other would naturally occur.
I got this stroke of luck, you see, this Wall called Marc, for with his arrival came oxygen, forced breathing, and with oxygen comes consciousness and with consciousness comes Accountability. The onus remains on me, on the Soul, to sort out the facts from the emotions; from there, I imagine, Accountability will be assigned but only loosely: This act of violence for which there are few consistent frames of reference is fickle in reason, flip-flopping in its finger-pointing and exasperatingly restless in its mental repetition. The Wall is forcing, without will or action, through constant love, patience and compassion a thorough examination of the questions and a forgiving host of answers that can be more interpretive than solid.
My luck is debatable in most circles: Sure, I got a fantastic partner out of it, a solid male presence in my son's life (also debatable in necessity by some) and someone to lean on when the fumes ran low; I got a helper of dishes and laundry, a drinking buddy, a lover and an intellectual equal without ego...all these things, for me, are solidly lucky. Most of all I got, for only the second time in my life, an unconditional compassion that allowed me to love Brian, violent abandonment and all, with unconditional compassion and it was then that I began to grieve. Compassion breeds trust, and trust opens doors, and open doors inevitably have stuff on the other side. A lot of it is ugly; a lot of it makes me really question my so-called luck.
I am in a good deal of physical and psychic anguish most of my day. When the grief really kicked in, when I started to slide and my shoes failed, I put out a hook instead of a hand and grappled my best friend; we no longer speak, and I miss her terribly. I lost my job; this turned out for the best since I'm certain I'd have fallen down publicly had it not been for what I perceived (at the time) to be an act of sheer cruelty perpetrated upon me by my employer. Now I'm more inclined to view it as euthanasia, something that Had To Be Done. In the mornings after taking Fergus to school or play date, I would come home and drink so that I could sleep, escape the tears that seem to never stop falling from my eyes, silently or otherwise; I did this with great deliberation, setting an alarm, undressing and getting back into bed as I'd left it an hour earlier, anaesthetized and spent. When I stopped drinking (during the day), I smoked pot to numb myself into a place of mindless drudgery but became too foggy, too unfocused, and eventually chucked the remainder of my stash out a car window on 295.
I cannot practice yoga right now. What was, this time last year, the place I'd come to know as home, blessed peace, my solace, my purpose, has become a bitter memory of What I Would Be. I would not call myself a yogi with any sort of pride or conviction right now; if anger remains toward Brian and his actions, it is for robbing me of this identity. I tell myself, to quell my anger, that I deserve to lose this drive because it was what forced my voice on that morning that I Said I Was Leaving; in my heart, I fear that it was what forced his finger on the trigger on that same day. I bought my own paralysis with the "freedom" that I've earned. Without yoga, I cannot heal myself; without forgiveness, I cannot practice.
I am unable to make the amends necessary to repair my friendship at this time, and I hope that if she's reading this that she might be bigger than I am – no great feat, I can assure – and make the first move. I cannot count on this, will not bank on it, but I'll sure as hell hope for it. I also hope that the folks whom I've neglected over this almost-a-year-now will look to me with their hearts and know that I'm doing the Best That I Can. I look forward to seeing you all again when I can.
My greatest sadness has been realized in the Things Brian Is Missing: Fergus's first skateboard, his growth spurt of almost five inches in six months and half as many shoe sizes, the potential for the First Black President that would have propelled him to the voting booth and silenced his objection to the sign on the lawn that he'd always viewed as little more than tacky posturing, our trip to Mexico that was wet-blanketed by his absence but that we all grudgingly took, anyway…Fergus can count to 10 in French and Spanish! We have numbers on our front door now! Your dad finished the deck! Crazy Barbara is moving (but she's turning her home into an assisted living facility, which might be worse)!
Guess what, dummy? You were loved. You could have, you would have found romance and love again and I would never, ever have taken a thing from you – especially Fergus. As it ever was with all the others, we would have enjoyed a friendship again, we would have remained connected through our son until the end of time. And now we still are, but you've left in your place a terrible legacy that is proving to be very much like that thistle that just won't stop growing in the yard.
