On Writing and Thinking

So, where do you write? I wonder. I’m curious about other people’s habits – all of them, but for this post I’m mostly just thinking about writing. And wondering where you do it.

I used to write in my journal in bed before I fell asleep. I remember doing that from the time I was 10 years old. I would write in my little diary with a lock on the front, in the pitch dark and then try to read what I wrote the next morning. I was always a little surprised – and maybe a little disappointed – when it was fairly legible. What I actually had to say probably wasn’t all that interesting, I guess.

But now I write at the computer in the room in our house that most closely resembles an office. The office look due in large part to the built in bookcases framing the window, but mostly to the wood paneling from the original design when the house was built in 1954. We decorate it now with kitschy cross-stitch pictures or velvet paintings. Paint-by-numbers and burlap big-eyed kids adorn our wistful 70s walls.

Usually I compose in my head, the first paragraph or so, and when I can squeeze in a few consecutive minutes, I bang something out. Either when Lily’s watching a movie or fast asleep – the only two times a day when she doesn’t need to be actively engaged in things only a 3 year old requires; making shopping lists full of nothing but x’s and o’s, mailing works of art made of stickers and bingo paint pens.

But most recently, I’ve been typing up posts at work, if at all.

My therapist called a couple weeks ago to check on me. I haven’t been to see her in almost 2 months. I told her I had to cancel an appointment initially because of a scheduling conflict but that lately I just don’t feel the need. She said she thinks I’m in a good place and that she would tell me if she felt otherwise.

I feel in a pretty stable place, too, for the most part. I still have moments of disbelief, regret, feeling cheated out of my happy life, stupid sadness and grief, but I know what to do with those feelings when they come around now. I’ve learned how to just feel them. Let them have their way with me for just long enough before I gently scootch them back
over
into their own sad room until next time.

I’m what they call, good-natured. Generally I just want to be happy, pride myself on being fair minded and pleasant. That’s one of those things about me that hasn’t changed. It’s one of those core values that seems to be what has kept me from drowning in my own sorrow.

I simply don’t want to. Deep down, I am not the type of person made to not get back up. As tiring as that sounds.

Not That Sorry

I made a girl cry yesterday. I didn’t mean to, I honestly wasn’t thinking about how she might hear what I was saying. I talk about death so much now that I forget the rest of the world still tries desperately to ignore it as much as possible. It’s such a common topic in my household, I guess I’m a bit hardened. The girl is a coworker, she came to my desk to ask  about a friend who’s mother recently passed away. See? Death. It’s everywhere; inescapable. How did I avoid it for so long?

My friend’s mother had been ill for quite some time. While I was out on leave after losing Olivia, she had been rushed to the emergency room twice with breathing problems. She had a tracheotomy and was on a breathing machine. She was on bed rest and just grateful that her first grandbaby could sit in her lap – with help, of course. I don’t believe it was a shock when she finally quit breathing for good. It may have been a sort of relief. But my friend talked about her mother constantly. She quoted her, bragged about her cooking, had her make pound cake for the office (when she was well enough to do so), she was definitely a mama’s girl. I couldn’t mention Lily without her telling me what her mother would say, or what her mother did when she did whatever Lily had done. On that front, I know my friend is devastated.

So Lily and I took her some food. I made the same thing I’d made when her grandmother died. Her mother had sent me a thank you asking for the recipe. I had considered that such a compliment, the way my friend regarded her mother’s cooking skills. But I never did give her that recipe. What a lazy asshole. The least I could do was make it for her this one last time.

As soon as I put Lily in her carseat to leave, she asked my friend a question. Why did your mommy die?

Because she was sick, my friend said. But she’s better now because she’s in heaven.

My baby sister was sick.

I know. Maybe my mommy can take care of your baby sister in heaven.

Lily lit up. Yes! she said. And they can take care of my buddy, too!

Buddy is the slug we found and put in her little insect house. He died in there, much to Lily’s dismay.

So I was telling my well-meaning coworker about the conversation because personally, I think it’s adorable and the sweetest thing I’ve ever heard.

My coworker apparently thought it was the saddest thing. She was obviously embarrassed, though, and I didn’t mean to do that to her. I kept thinking about going to her desk today to promise not to make her cry every time we talk (I’m new to the area so I didn’t want to give her the wrong impression).

Yet, somehow, for some reason, I just couldn’t do it. Because you know what? I don’t really think I’m sorry. I regret making her feel bad, of course, but I’m not sorry that she can’t deal with the subject of death. Death is a reality. It’s my reality. I’ve been through enough, dammit, I really don’t think I should have to apologize for it.

Does that make me cold?