Make eye contact.
Respond when people speak to you, full sentences please.
Ask questions.
Listen to the answer.
Consider offering a thought or opinion.
Engage.
Care.
Smile.
I feel like I am parenting a young child who is off to school for the first time or teaching a newly arrived foreigner how to conduct herself in our culture. I’m not. I’m talking to myself. Asking, what a level-headed, un-crazy, pre-wounded, sound and solid person would do in this situation? The conversations in here are endless spirals of complete and total fun. It’s good times.
There is coaching from within too. A softer gentleness has replaced the suck-it-up-buttercup cheerleader voice that used to run commentary before my son died. Now it’s more like: Way to go, you held a meaningful three-minute conversation at the grocery store. You made it an entire day without crying. High five. You used an exclamation point in an Instagram comment! Woo hoo!!
The inner talking never stops. It’s a two-way conversation.
Smile? I don’t think so. You go too far.
I mean it …crack a grin once in a while. It will not kill you to smile.
But it feels like it may? It feels like a lie.
It’s not completely untrue, there are many things to smile about. And whatever you do, resist the urge to turtle. The turtle no longer serves you. She might be a groovy spirit animal but the turtle is not your friend. When you start to squirm just take a deep breath and look to the light. You are in charge here. Direct this mess.
You’re not the boss of me.
Oh for God’s sake. When you want to look down or run, don’t. Stay. Do the work to build some happy. When someone says ‘how are you?’ the appropriate response is ‘I. am. fine. thank you.’
But that’s not true either? I’m not fine, what about this is fine?
It doesn’t have to be 100% true. Partial truth is still truth.
You should be a lawyer. Or work for Donald Trump.
Hey, look at you making jokes. See…I knew you could do it.
I’m sure it seems rudimentary and even obvious but this really does feel like beginning at the beginning. I’m in human pre-school. Searching for joy as if she’s tucked in last winter’s jacket in the back of a closet, or is it the basement, or the garage? The mechanism of happy is simply not a 24/7 buffet any more. It takes some pushing and cajoling. Have you ever tried to get a three year old to appreciate broccoli? It’s like that. I used to resort to chocolate sauce.
I just realized I’ve been ducking behind the barricades for a year and a half. I’m not sure if I’ve been sheltering myself from the painful world or sparing the people I care about from…well…me, the unidentifiable stranger. So the question now becomes…how to behave when the person I was before doesn’t live here any more?
Oh sure, I appear basically the same. Skeleton and skin arranged in a recognizable stack. Address and phone number status quo. Solid freckle game. Outdated clothing, not a trace of makeup. Apple shaped. But there’s an imposter in here. Some days I can see that old me in the distance, running just out of sight. I really want to have her back. To inhabit her. She was so much fun. Hang on, there’s a flicker of dark hair as she disappears behind a cold barren tree in the woods.
It’s time to stop chasing that out of date model and let her go. She’s done her years of service and she is exhausted. Moreover she’s obsolete. New upgrades are typically faster, slicker, more flashy. Tara 2.17 is slower, more contained and hopefully a little more functional. I get to re-design so I get to choose. This time I’m going for a substantially more peaceful, mindful version. When that crackling static starts to fire up in my ears I say to myself – look to the light tara. Put him in you pocket and look to the light. He’s not gone, you’re not ignoring him, you are choosing to rise. Holden won’t mind. In fact, he’ll probably be pretty stoked about the idea.
Christmas was tough. Perhaps more difficult than last year. Last year I prepared myself for the awful newness of the first holiday season without him. Everyone told me the first everything was the worst. I barred the door and wallowed. This year I thought it would be easier, that time and distance would round the edges, but I was very wrong. I was a big fat faker. It was okay for a while. We went to a couple of parties early in December and enjoyed ourselves. Not the old ‘life-of-the-party-dance-til-two’ couple but a decent effort. I’ve never used the expression ‘meh’ much but it seems to fit here. My sweet husband felt the same way. That old, easy jubilant nature was a slippery fish for him too. I am furious with Holden for stealing the happiness of the most naturally big hearted, joyful man I have ever known. Not even Grandma’s butter tarts could cheer him up.
Then something happened. About half way through December a shift or acknowledgement that it was all just pretend. That true contentedness was impossible and the missing was just too strong. I was sucked into a black vacuum I call the ‘blackuum.’ Amongst the cookies, visitors and gravy I fell apart for hours and days at a time. When our puppy chewed Holden’s stocking so it could not be hung up by the fire I sobbed like a toddler. When we put up the tree I, imagined the four of us in years past and shuddered while fat tears raindropped into my eggnog. Eggnog that did not taste anything like it was supposed to. Thank God for Michael Bublé or the afternoon may have been a total loss. Doing the brunch dishes one morning I crumbled and shook. I think I scared my Mom.
I went through the motions like a marionette being controlled by a wizard behind the curtain. His name is Mr. Tradition. At times I felt like all that was holding me together was a clear film not unlike the top of a crème brûllée. Now I completely understand the term “cracking up.” Let’s just say there is a lot of snot on some very solid shoulders around here.
Then a surprising thing happened. New Year’s Day. Such a cliché I almost laughed out loud in my bed. I woke up and before I even opened my eyes I said to myself – enough, time to look for the light. It was that simple. You’ve had your head between your knees for 18 months. Give yourself a break. Start over. Maybe it was hormone fluctuations, the earth’s orientation to the sun, sugar withdrawal or the quietness of the house. The relief that ‘The Holidays’ were over actually felt like a crane had lifted a skid of shit off of me. I walked around that day feeling elevated. I rearranged the furniture. I dusted!
I have decided to try to authentically inhabit this new self. She is a vastly different chick from her former edition. She says ‘no’ more, she is quite lazy, she eats junk food, she reads constantly and rarely watches TV (except Gilmore Girls re-runs on Netflix with her daughter because… Gilmore Girls!). She does not lead conversations or fill in awkward silences.
I have put a moratorium on longing for the former, easily joyful, flippant person who used to reside in me. To unapologetically direct this gift of a life with more intention. That means driving the boat instead of being dragged along behind it. It’s a very hard thing. I hope I can do it. I mean hey, we are five entire days in and it’s working so far. Well, actually, I’m crying right now because writing has a way of releasing the hounds. But basically, it’s better. Looking ‘to the light’ is physical, as in the splendid sunshine that we have been blessed with since the year began. It’s also figurative. Choosing the light option on the menu. For instance, when I’m out walking the trail near my home and thoughts of sad unfairness and confused anger bob up into my consciousness I just say to myself ‘look to the light,’ and there it is, the blue sky and the cute tumbling dogs and the clear blue icicles we so rarely get to experience here on the coast.
Often when I would ask Holden how he was, he would say ‘I’m alright Mom, I’m alright’ which I totally get now. ‘I’m alright’ means ‘I survived another day but I am in pain. Nothing is fine here. I am not fine, I am simply functioning and life sucks. I am confused, anxious and I don’t know what my life is for.’ I used to get so excited when he would say ‘I’m good’ or ‘I’m fine’ or use an exclamation point in his texts or emails because if Holden was anything he was impeccable with his written word. He would never snow-job me with some puffed up punctuation.
As with any renovation it happens in stages. One day soon I hope to be able to honestly answer the question ‘how are you?’ with ‘I am fine thanks,’ and really mean it.
Then I might feel like a basically normal human being.
