Avoiding the Glimmer

Avoidance seems to be the name of the game. My father passed away two weeks ago yesterday and I just don't want to talk about it. Glimmers of pain have rushed through my body as I am reminded of losing my father. Who wants to experience this sadness? Not me, so I ignore the phone calls from certain members of my family, those who stimulate my vulnerability causing an opening for the glimmer to enter. I realize that these loved ones care about my feelings and want to connect with me during this tragic time in our lives, but I can't. This past week I have worked diligently to build a forcefield by which to protect myself. But this field is weak, therefore I must steer clear of people who can penetrate the forcefield allowing the glimmer to enter me.

The glimmer is short and sharp. For a moment I am overcome by a heavy sadness that clutches my heart bringing out tears that I have managed to hide. This glimmer occurs when I think about my father, my relationship with him, and his relationship with my children. It happened today in the midst of gardening. I was superficially aware of my thoughts, remembering things said over the past week regarding my father. This gave the glimmer a back door to slip in and take hold of me. I was grateful my back was to my children and my husband was far enough away to not notice I had been attacked by the glimmer.

I recognize intellectually that some day the glimmer will attack in lesser intervals. Until then I am trying to avoid the glimmer. Honestly, I do not think I will be successful for long.

Melodies in Minor Key

As I walk outside and turn on my IPOD, I search for music that might reach down to the pit of my being and pull me out. I long to swim in melodies in the minor key. These songs capture my reality and enable me to float out of myself in order to review certain moments in my life. It seems whenever I experience a traumatic change in my life, I begin to doubt who I am, who I am becoming, and who I have set out to be. I suppose this doubt is a common response to such events as a dying parent. Nonetheless, its commonality does not change my mental status. So in hopes to rid myself of this doubt, I work to push feelings of rejection and insecurity back into my Pandora box. But like Sisyphus' rock, this doubt is relentlessly returning. As a consequence, I am experiencing moments of reflection, where I focus on a past event that has contributed to this doubt and consider what this says about me. It is painful to reflect on moments of vulnerability in past relationships. This has all been triggered by my father's decline in his ability to exist and also by acting as my mother's sounding board. I cannot help but think about how my father chose to live his life and his relationship with my mother. This leads to my reflection on my past and to understanding how my parents influenced my life.

I am venturing into an abyss. I fear I may never return. To avoid this venture is of no use. It's a siren who sings in the melodious minor key. The music cannot drown out her song for her voice increases in volume. I attempt to turn around, reverse my venture but her voice becomes claws that grip my wrists and drag me down this road. What will this reflection accomplish? I am afraid to find out, but I do not think I have a choice this time. So I will listen to the melodies in minor key and hope they speak to me.

Burn Out

I have avoided writing because I have been fighting this urge to complain. So instead I have silenced myself, which has moved the coping from verbal to physical. Is this another stage of grief? If it is, it should be labeled "burn out." My smile has become heavy and these days when no one is looking it turns upside down. Today it quivered.

I am aware of my feelings of sadness, lethargy, and ambivalence; yet, I seem to be unable to stop them. Usually I can will myself out of any negative mental state. This time I am not so confident. While I continue to fulfill my domestic responsibilities of taking care of my children, I am not taking care of myself. My body aches. I am so tired. I never exercise. This exacerbates my low mental state. Even writing this takes effort. It is so cliche to say, but I want to dig a hole and crawl in it.

See, I told you I would complain. This entry has no semblance of poetics. I should apologize to my muses. No! They should apologize to me for their abandonment. Why do they hide when I am at my low points? It doesn't even matter. I am done. I am burnt.

I Am Still My Father's Daughter

It is amazing how many "stages" of coping one can go through within a two week period. For a brief moment today as I listened to my mother describe her frustration with my father's attempts to get out of bed and walk to the bathroom, I felt a ripple of anger move through me. It could be that I was tired from being out until 1:30 AM the night before; my tolerance for carrying my mother's pain and frustration had weakened. I had to bite my tongue, literally.

While within the ripple, my father's neglect of his body felt personal. His refusal to find ways to repair his broken body over his lifetime has led to his need to rely on my mother as caretaker. It has led to me sitting at his kitchen table listening to my mother's suffering.

Within the same momentary ripple, I recognized my mother's actions toward my father show she cares for his well-being, but her words of frustration sounded unloving. My mother has courageously took over as caretaker; I am proud of her. However, it is hard to hear her speak as if she doesn't empathize with my father. Because he does not reciprocate or demonstrate recognition of her sacrifice all the time or the way she wants, she feels under appreciated. I think this is reflective of underlying issues within their relationship. Regardless, due to my weakened tolerance, I wanted so much to tell my mother to think before she speaks. I want her to realize that even though she may feel like she can unload all her feelings onto me, I am still my father's daughter.

While I empathize with my mother's situation, while I know who she is, I wish she would listen to me. Not that I would even know what to say because we never really had a reciprocal relationship in this sense. She would always say how I never opened up to her. And I always wanted to respond, but didn't, "it's because you could never handle what I have to say." While I realize I may be underestimating my mother and my ability to articulate my feelings to others without fear of judgement or confrontation, I have been disappointed in the past. My mother's ability to truly listen and be present for me is a crap shoot; one I have stopped gambling on.

But I did successfully handle the anger ripple and repositioned my attitude in order to be present for my mother and my father. I love my parents and want to make sure the loss of my father does not destroy my mother emotionally and financially. Being an advocate for my parents requires that I keep my subjective lens into my parent's affairs in check; otherwise, anger, resentment, and fear will blur my vision and taint my actions. Understanding one's self is a never-ending process: this is life. I am realizing how limited not only my understanding is, but those of my family members. My father, the person who acted as if he did not want to understand himself, is the reason we are all being forced to take a deeper look into ourselves.

Sometimes I want to take a break from this intensity, but it lingers behind me like a shadow. I decided to go out with some friends as a way to take a break from carrying this heavy burden. While it did take my mind off of things for most of the time, there were a few moments when I felt sadness clutch the back of my throat. This guy was talking nonchalantly about his father and their relationship. I wanted to tell him to not take it for granted. I wished for a moment I had this type of relationship with my dad, where we could sit back, have some beers, and talk about life. The sadness lingered as I remembered how my dad used to listen to me and how I enjoyed his stories, even though I knew them all by heart.

There is never an escape from life. There is never an escape from one's reflection. There is the ability to close the eyes and smash the mirror, but the repercussions are dreary. While I almost lost a few marbles today and let my tongue speak harshly, I didn't. I believe I experienced Schon's "reflection-in-action" in an emotional sense--I was able to see the situation, think about my reaction before taking action, reflect on the consequences and my purpose in order to make the best decision.

For the moment, the ripple of appreciation for my husband and kids, for who I am moves through my body. I am reminded of this stanza from a previously written poem, "As a child I wanted to understand/This world I breathed/Now that I am older/I realize life is not just what we perceive/It is what we deliver and what we receive./This is making meaning." Even though my father's condition prohibits him from normal interaction, he continues to support my personal growth, my ability to make meaning of life.

I will always be my father's daughter.