the process...(important to me, pls read)
so i am actually feeling really grounded after talking to frank jones. rub his belly, he's a wise one. (actually, don't. he'll prolly thank you)
grief is very isolating. i can tell you i'm sad, you can even be sad for the same reason, and i can even beat you over the head with my big thorny "sad stick", but ultimately, my grief is my own and you simply cannot experience it firsthand. emotional (and physical) pain can be very lonely.
grief is also complex. the ones we love the most often hurt us the most, which can lead to some interesting dialectics. i realized very early on that there is often very little correlation between how someone treats you & how much they love you. so my mind shouts to this situation, "get back in your box!". it wants to compartmentalize & make sense of my relationship to my father. but attempting to do so, for me, is very unsatisfying for i have always revelled in the notion that there is no absolute truth. i have pretty much always believed that we can disagree, both be right, both be wrong, and do so without any contradiction. i take comfort in _validating_ everything by _negating_ everything.
so the man who has hurt me the most is now dead. i have to accept that he was selfish & abusive, and that i rarely questioned it, like a puppy or child, which i was. and that i have showered him with love & compassion to his final moments, while only rarely drawing the boundaries i needed to. at the same time, i have emotionally shut down when given the opportunity to love. and i have only myself to hold accountable. but even hitler did his best because he was the very best hitler he knew how to be. and i am the best allison i know how to be, and i fuck up repeatedly every day, which i think makes it perfect, no?
i can't create a sound byte for his life. i have to find comfort in the ambiguity of our relationship. so you can imagine why its taken me days to cope with the obituary. i have to accept that i am expected to be a source of comfort and strength to my mother, who is crippled with grief even though they divorced over 24 years ago. and hold space for my brother, who was never, ever, accepted by our father. and support gina, who is "the strong one". me, i'm weak. i burrow my head in the sand at every opportunity, but i often find treasures down there.
i offer no truth, but i can tell you a few facts. my parents both still loved each other, but couldn't be together, because my mom had the strength to say no to his abuse in 1981. using this model, love to me looks like saying no to people who don't treat you well, and simultaneously accepting them -- not despite their flaws, but *because* of them. love looks like abuse and acceptance and fuzzy boundaries. love can not be trusted. love is never enough, but its all that matters. i am trying to give you facts and still i am ultimately giving you opinions.
so i guess one "fact" is, my father died on my mothers birthday. she read him the liturgy in the hospital for two hours, and he died almost exactly the minute she shut the door behind her, asking the nurse on her way out "how long can he go on like this?". he fought with life, then he fought death, he resisted our love, he battled cancer. and now i'm left behind, doing battle with the "truth". its a fight i can accept.
grief is very isolating. i can tell you i'm sad, you can even be sad for the same reason, and i can even beat you over the head with my big thorny "sad stick", but ultimately, my grief is my own and you simply cannot experience it firsthand. emotional (and physical) pain can be very lonely.
grief is also complex. the ones we love the most often hurt us the most, which can lead to some interesting dialectics. i realized very early on that there is often very little correlation between how someone treats you & how much they love you. so my mind shouts to this situation, "get back in your box!". it wants to compartmentalize & make sense of my relationship to my father. but attempting to do so, for me, is very unsatisfying for i have always revelled in the notion that there is no absolute truth. i have pretty much always believed that we can disagree, both be right, both be wrong, and do so without any contradiction. i take comfort in _validating_ everything by _negating_ everything.
so the man who has hurt me the most is now dead. i have to accept that he was selfish & abusive, and that i rarely questioned it, like a puppy or child, which i was. and that i have showered him with love & compassion to his final moments, while only rarely drawing the boundaries i needed to. at the same time, i have emotionally shut down when given the opportunity to love. and i have only myself to hold accountable. but even hitler did his best because he was the very best hitler he knew how to be. and i am the best allison i know how to be, and i fuck up repeatedly every day, which i think makes it perfect, no?
i can't create a sound byte for his life. i have to find comfort in the ambiguity of our relationship. so you can imagine why its taken me days to cope with the obituary. i have to accept that i am expected to be a source of comfort and strength to my mother, who is crippled with grief even though they divorced over 24 years ago. and hold space for my brother, who was never, ever, accepted by our father. and support gina, who is "the strong one". me, i'm weak. i burrow my head in the sand at every opportunity, but i often find treasures down there.
i offer no truth, but i can tell you a few facts. my parents both still loved each other, but couldn't be together, because my mom had the strength to say no to his abuse in 1981. using this model, love to me looks like saying no to people who don't treat you well, and simultaneously accepting them -- not despite their flaws, but *because* of them. love looks like abuse and acceptance and fuzzy boundaries. love can not be trusted. love is never enough, but its all that matters. i am trying to give you facts and still i am ultimately giving you opinions.
so i guess one "fact" is, my father died on my mothers birthday. she read him the liturgy in the hospital for two hours, and he died almost exactly the minute she shut the door behind her, asking the nurse on her way out "how long can he go on like this?". he fought with life, then he fought death, he resisted our love, he battled cancer. and now i'm left behind, doing battle with the "truth". its a fight i can accept.