Why do you search for the living among the dead?
This was part of the Gospel reading at church on Sunday, and I've been thinking about it a lot. It's also similar to something that Mama Killheffer said to me on Saturday, as we were talking about life in general, about M., and about my fear of being close to people, of forming lasting relationships, and of love. I told her about my dream, the one with my sister and grandmother, and how it worried me that I had to die to be part of their world. And I told her how I feel very much like I'm forgetting so much of my past--forgetting my mother, my father, bits of my sister--to the point where I force myself to think of them so that I won't forget. And she said to me, "Why do you feel like you have to die in order to keep them alive?" It's similar to what was said in therapy, where my therapist pointed out that when I have dreams about my family, I die in order to be with them.
And, I'm coming to realise, I shouldn't have to. I'm still alive! I'm still here! I've written down a lot of my memories, some here, some in paper journals, so that I wouldn't have to think about them all the time. They've been written down so that I will have them to tell if I want to, so that if I'm 70 years old and trying to tell my grandchildren about the time my mother did a funny dance to cheer me up, I'll have it. But that doesn't mean that I should have to live it. I feel like I live with ghosts. I live with 5 of them--the ghost of my mother, sad she's not here; the ghost of my father, whom I loved and never got to know; the ghost of my sister, who I'm sure tried to have my best interests at heart but never got to live her own life; the ghost of my grandmother in her prime, sharp as a tack and a complete bulldozer if you crossed her. But the last ghost is so hard to tend to, because she's so hard to find. It's the ghost of myself--the person I used to be, the person I miss being. Instead of being myself, it's like I'm this shell. She pops out every now and then--I felt her there when I was dating Matthew--and I can feel her there when I'm with my family. I think that's because they knew her, they knew the girl who was always kind of disgruntled, but had fun and didn't want life to pass her by.
I realised that I tend to feel guilty when I let msyelf go. Guilty that I'm alive and they're not, but Jenna espeically. I can't help but wonder why the cards fell the way they did for us, so that it's sometimes like I'm in some kind of supernatural Survivor episode, where the challenges are to deal with the deaths of the people you love most, and who ever deals with it best wins or something. But what the hell did I win? A life without my family? Who decided that I would be the last one standing? And how do I keep going, because so much of what I know is death? When Jenna died, I did too, in so many ways.
I always wanted to be part of something, anything, to always be where my friends were, in case I missed something fun, or something big. I hated the fact that my sister and Rob never really seemed to have any interest in going out anywhere, or if they did, it wasn't with me! They were always sleeping, or running late, or always behind on something. Some of that was from Rob's issues, but my sister always ran late when it was just her, too, and it used to frustrate me! Many of their friends ended up befriending me--I'd go to the movies with Claire, or Scraps (who, once upon a time, went by a different name, and it took me forever to learn to call him Scraps!), I'd go to Jack's house for movie night without them, or to have brunch with Ellen because I think she's facinating. I rode the Cyclone for the very first time when I was 16 years old, with Patrick and Teresa and Patrick's nephew Milo, who was only 12 or so and very worried that I'd be scared. I didn't want to stay home all the time, didn't want to miss out on life. My friends would call me and off I'd go--have tokens (yes, there were tokens then, and they were only $1.50!), will travel. I had my moments of inertia, more than I'd like to think of, once upon a time. I had no motivation to do any school work, no interest in college. But I wanted to have fun, and I'd go and find it. Now I'm lucky if I can drag myself off the couch to the upstairs bathroom, because the stairs are too much. I go to the same bar in the neighborhood because I don't want to be "on" when we're in the city. And that's exactly what it feels like, like I have to turn myself on and be smiling and charming and fun.
I wasn't always smiling and charming and fun. That happened somewhere in my senior year of high school (that magial time of shirts two sizes too small and ugly clown lips), and died sometime around 2002. I knew how to be that way--I learned to schmooze at the knee of Ellie (well, okay, I don't know that I was ever at her knee, but you get the point), so I know how to schmooze better than most. And you know what? It never felt forced. I was always genuinely interested in other people, in what they had to say, in who they were. Sometimes, and you can always tell, I can't extricate myself, and then someone like Teresa would have to come and save me (like she did at a Readercon a long time ago now), but for the most part, I was always okay. I always had a good time, I always had fun. Now I do things, but out of habit. I smile, I say the right things, but it feels forced a good portion of the time, and I don't want to be forced. I don't want to feel like it's an effort just to be civil to someone for no reason other than they're talking to me!
I know that I hide behind my boundaries, and that when I'm desperately unhappy I drink more than I normally do. Such is the nature of the beast. I will say that I know how to temper myself better than others when this happens--I'm more aware of my habits than others seem to think I am. I know that I need to be careful--I never forget where I came from--and I know that there's always a possibility my drinking could go out of control. But it hasn't, and I have enough safety nets in place with all my friends and my roommate that it won't. I don't need interventions. I need to heal. I need to sit and process and deal with the things that upset me so badly. When Jenna was in the hospital, I didn't deal with my feelings--I let everyone else do that. I sat back, gave people time and let them sit with her, when really what I wanted was to climb into bed with her and stay there till they made me move. I wanted to go, too, I didn't want her to leave me. But no one would ever have known it, and no one ever would have guessed. I was angry and I was scared, and no one cared, because they were too busy with their own grief. And in the end, all I have left is my grief. Unlike everyone else, I haven't processed it, I haven't dealt with it, and I haven't moved on.
Why do you look for the living among the dead? Easter weekend, I stopped. Easter weekend, I was surrounded by people who truly do love me, who want me to feel better, who are all very much alive. Gretl was huge with the baby, and little Charlo was chattering and playing, and so absolutely thrilled at the prospect of discovering something new. I'm surrounded by all this life, all kinds of joy and all kinds of potential, and I never seem to feel it. For the first time in years, I let my walls down, listened to what my family (and G-d, it seems, with that crazy, well-timed reading!) has been trying to tell me for years. There's no need for me to hide in my memories, no need for me to feel badly about living. Watching Giancarlo, watching the baby move inside of Gretl, I realised it's unfair for me to feel guilty. It's not my fault that this happened! I can miss them without giving up on myself, without being dead inside. I went on a date I never would have gone on otherwise, and found myself having a better time than I imagined. I find that I'm feeling a bit settled, a bit peaceful. I feel content. Like I did something I should have done forever ago, and now that I'm finally doing it, my life can start again. I'm not really sure how to put into words the change in me, it's hard to describe properly.
One thing I can describe, though. I'm starting to feel alive again. Like I can do anything I put my mind to, like I can have nearly anything I want. And it's fabulous to feel that way again, even if it's fleeting.