Okay so this is a continuation.
No responses necessary, please.
I was gonna write a book about this, and since that would have been published all and sundry, there's no reason I can't put this on here.
I am aware that no one else was married to Tianyu but me (all Mormon hidden wife jokes aside), and that his death would impact me more closely than say, maybe his friends, or my friends. I give special deference to his family, because they have known him longer than I ever could, and to friends of his who have been in the picture longer than I have.
That being said, on my best of days, I wake up every morning with my daughter beside me and know that there is nothing I can do to get Tianyu back. It's his boxes of crap in my basement, his death that gets me the social security I live on. That's the couch we bought and used for three years. There are pieces of him in it, on a microscopic level. That's melodramatic, but I think about it every time I sit down.
That being said, I'm struck by what happens in these situations, since I am now no longer the passive observer: these things, these tragedies happen, and everyone rallies to the cause. There's a funeral, and flowers, and for a few months people pop in and out of your life and then it just stops. People go on with their lives, and you hear from people with the same frequency you did before this happened.
On one hand I know that people are less affected than I am, or that they are more affected, but that their relationship with Tianyu was something that didn't involve me, and so their grief doesn't involve me. I also know that people have their own personal problems that take precedence, and that some of those are just as pressing as mine.
It's not that I begrudge them for going on with their lives. In fact, that is fine. The problem is that I have somehow interpreted this as a signal that they want me to move on too. And I just can't. And I'm angry with myself because I can't. I'm acutely aware of how many times I mention Tianyu in company of people who knew him. Last March I got together with a bunch of his friends, and I talked about him constantly. Afterward, I thought that maybe that wasn't the thing to do. Maybe I should stop. Maybe people are wondering when I will get over it, or put it behind me, or whatever.
I talk about him because I can't say to all of you that oh my god he's dead and he isn't coming back and I can't touch him anymore, or throw cold water on him when he's in the shower, or jokingly talk about how hot Narusegawa is and that I'd hit that. And I won't make love to him anymore or show him what his daughter did that day. And I'm not sure if I should mention him anymore in public to people because what is the etiquette on this, especially since it's been over a year and in past times I would have taken my black clothes off and started looking for a husband by now.
And no one person can fill this void, I know, but nothing about my life has ever returned to normal. I didn't get to buy my house. I didn't get to have a family, not that family. This is all woe is me. But everything is irrevocable. I never could have foreseen that I'd be living alone in a house with my daughter. Two years ago I was on the way to having a house and a teaching career and a husband who'd be stripping wallpaper with me and changing diapers and dressing our kid up in Solid Snake or Mei Ling costumes.
Maybe I've said this before, or maybe this is new. I'm struck by the time I've edited myself for this lj, when I started it as a personal thing for myself. I guess it's a testament to the nature of the internet and how we try to make something as public as a bullhorn a personal thing. I mean, if I really wanted this to be personal, I'd make this whole journal private. I actually find that I don't care about this issue and what private vs. public means. It's cliche to say that none of this matters because I've experienced pain and no one's pain can measure up to what I'm going through, because that's shit. But I think I understand why people feel that way sometimes; the whole world moves on without them, and the tendency to stew in your own solitary grief fosters this feeling that you are alone. Then everyone's pain becomes insignificant because you (perhaps falsely) perceive that people are largely believe the same thing. Then it becomes a battle of the "oh my crap is way worse than yours."
Let's face it-- intellectually, I know that the woman who lost her whole family and the Hezbollah/Israel skirmish last summer probably has it worse than I do. She has no husband, children, family, and no assistance, and maybe she has bodily injuries. I have a healthy child, family support, and financial assistance. Just thinking about it makes me feel guilty that I'm still in pain at all. And then here we are back where I started at the top of the post.
There's no solution. I'm tired. The baby keeps getting up multiple times in the night and I don't know what to do about that. And I still can't seem to stop trying to find ways to bring him back. I watch way too much Buffy and read way to many comic books for it not to be ingrained in me somewhere, no matter how futile.
I was gonna write a book about this, and since that would have been published all and sundry, there's no reason I can't put this on here.
I am aware that no one else was married to Tianyu but me (all Mormon hidden wife jokes aside), and that his death would impact me more closely than say, maybe his friends, or my friends. I give special deference to his family, because they have known him longer than I ever could, and to friends of his who have been in the picture longer than I have.
That being said, on my best of days, I wake up every morning with my daughter beside me and know that there is nothing I can do to get Tianyu back. It's his boxes of crap in my basement, his death that gets me the social security I live on. That's the couch we bought and used for three years. There are pieces of him in it, on a microscopic level. That's melodramatic, but I think about it every time I sit down.
That being said, I'm struck by what happens in these situations, since I am now no longer the passive observer: these things, these tragedies happen, and everyone rallies to the cause. There's a funeral, and flowers, and for a few months people pop in and out of your life and then it just stops. People go on with their lives, and you hear from people with the same frequency you did before this happened.
On one hand I know that people are less affected than I am, or that they are more affected, but that their relationship with Tianyu was something that didn't involve me, and so their grief doesn't involve me. I also know that people have their own personal problems that take precedence, and that some of those are just as pressing as mine.
It's not that I begrudge them for going on with their lives. In fact, that is fine. The problem is that I have somehow interpreted this as a signal that they want me to move on too. And I just can't. And I'm angry with myself because I can't. I'm acutely aware of how many times I mention Tianyu in company of people who knew him. Last March I got together with a bunch of his friends, and I talked about him constantly. Afterward, I thought that maybe that wasn't the thing to do. Maybe I should stop. Maybe people are wondering when I will get over it, or put it behind me, or whatever.
I talk about him because I can't say to all of you that oh my god he's dead and he isn't coming back and I can't touch him anymore, or throw cold water on him when he's in the shower, or jokingly talk about how hot Narusegawa is and that I'd hit that. And I won't make love to him anymore or show him what his daughter did that day. And I'm not sure if I should mention him anymore in public to people because what is the etiquette on this, especially since it's been over a year and in past times I would have taken my black clothes off and started looking for a husband by now.
And no one person can fill this void, I know, but nothing about my life has ever returned to normal. I didn't get to buy my house. I didn't get to have a family, not that family. This is all woe is me. But everything is irrevocable. I never could have foreseen that I'd be living alone in a house with my daughter. Two years ago I was on the way to having a house and a teaching career and a husband who'd be stripping wallpaper with me and changing diapers and dressing our kid up in Solid Snake or Mei Ling costumes.
Maybe I've said this before, or maybe this is new. I'm struck by the time I've edited myself for this lj, when I started it as a personal thing for myself. I guess it's a testament to the nature of the internet and how we try to make something as public as a bullhorn a personal thing. I mean, if I really wanted this to be personal, I'd make this whole journal private. I actually find that I don't care about this issue and what private vs. public means. It's cliche to say that none of this matters because I've experienced pain and no one's pain can measure up to what I'm going through, because that's shit. But I think I understand why people feel that way sometimes; the whole world moves on without them, and the tendency to stew in your own solitary grief fosters this feeling that you are alone. Then everyone's pain becomes insignificant because you (perhaps falsely) perceive that people are largely believe the same thing. Then it becomes a battle of the "oh my crap is way worse than yours."
Let's face it-- intellectually, I know that the woman who lost her whole family and the Hezbollah/Israel skirmish last summer probably has it worse than I do. She has no husband, children, family, and no assistance, and maybe she has bodily injuries. I have a healthy child, family support, and financial assistance. Just thinking about it makes me feel guilty that I'm still in pain at all. And then here we are back where I started at the top of the post.
There's no solution. I'm tired. The baby keeps getting up multiple times in the night and I don't know what to do about that. And I still can't seem to stop trying to find ways to bring him back. I watch way too much Buffy and read way to many comic books for it not to be ingrained in me somewhere, no matter how futile.