Monday, March 28, 2011


I'm so tired of being sad. Bone weary exhausted, really.

I'm not wallowing. Honest. I have newly-purchased cans of paint and two bathrooms ready and waiting. I have crochet projects on the go. I have work scheduled. I have a to-do list that I follow. I have lunch plans with a friend on Friday.

The thing is, when I'm in the midst of the busyness, it's all good. But when I pause to figure out what that nagging feeling is - that sense that someone is watching me, that something is wrong, that I've had a bad dream, that I'm late for something - I realize it's sadness quietly waiting to be acknowledged.

And so I cry. I cry for my dad - for all the pain and indignities he suffered in the months before he died. I cry for me, because I miss him so much. I cry because I haven't yet figured out what to do with this unplanned life. And I cry because that scares the bejeezus out of me.

Fate has been clever and methodical in the doling out of disaster. A miscarriage in 2003, a miscarriage in 2004, Thomas' birth and death in 2005, fertility treatments in 2006/7, a miscarriage in 2007, more fertility treatments in 2008, dad's illness in 2010, his death in 2011. These things seemed to have spaced themselves out, giving me juuuuuust enough time to recover from one disaster before tossing some new horror my way.

The cumulative effect is like sitting beneath a pile of elephants trying to smile while I'm being crushed to death.

This is life. I know that. No one escapes unscathed, and in the midst of the horror is unimaginable beauty. I know that. I know that. I know that. There are bigger disasters. There are crueler fates. There are harder lives.

But, still, this is mine.

The other day I was telling My Beloved that I barely remember the girl I was before that first loss in 2003. I miss her, I told him. She's like a brightly-coloured character in a book - happy and innocent. Not without worry or sorrow, but still buzzing with light and energy.

In his wisdom and kindness he acknowledged her loss, but told me that the girl he's now married to is not just a shadow of the one he once knew. I am better, he says, in some ways. I didn't ask for specifics. I was too stunned and overjoyed to care.

Better. At least in some ways. That's good to know.

I know the fatigue of sorrow will wane. And maybe I'm thinking too hard; worrying about it too much. It hasn't yet been three months since the most recent elephant, after all.

But it would be nice not to be so grief-weary. So very, very nice.


Mrs. Spit said...

I'm sorry. There comes that phase where you are so tired of being tired, and still have some grieving to do.

Sending prayers for respite and mercy.

ApronStringsEm said...

I am so sorry. I know I've been absent lately and haven't had much to offer. Please know that I understand exactly what you mean, as I've recently been feeling the same way.

Beloved's are good for giving us strength when we need it most. Keep leaning on him when you need to. Mine has been my rock in the midst of tsunamis.


Illanare said...

I am so sorry. Thinking of you and hoping respite and peace comes your way soon; it's been too long.

justine said...

I wish there were something better to offer than empathy ... you are in my thoughts. Try to be kind to yourself.

areyoukiddingme said...

I find, for me, that when I get tired of being on the bottom of the elephant pile, sometimes that means the elephants are about to get bored and wander off to do something else. I hope the weight of grief soon lifts from you.

I like to picture your dad and Thomas having a grand old time getting to know each other in heaven.

erica said...

I'm sorry. I hope that you are free from any new elephants for a good long time so that the person you are now can catch her breath.

Mali said...

Crying is okay. Sounds like you're doing amazingly well. Don't feel pressured to come up with what to do with your life. You'll figure it out, or it'll just happen. And right now you need time.

And I agree with your husband. I have more to say, but I won't do it here.

loribeth said...

One elephant, we can often handle... it's when those elephants start piling up on top of each other that it becomes difficult. (((hugs)))

the misfit said...

I can certainly relate to the feeling of missing a former, light-hearted self. I don't suppose that person is meant to come back. But someday I hope to achieve a person who is wiser and more balanced - but still capable of lightness and joy. Some day, the world has to run out of elephants...

Pipsylou said...

I like this:
I find, for me, that when I get tired of being on the bottom of the elephant pile, sometimes that means the elephants are about to get bored and wander off to do something else.

One of these days you're going to wake up and smile...really smile.

And you're right, it will feel really good. (and weird)