Healing

A slippery, synthetic duvet is slowly suffocating me, pressing me into the pillows that feel like they’re filled with rocks.  I’m tossing and turning to the sounds of the Beagle snoring at my feet, on top of my feet.  More heaviness.  I can’t breathe.  My throat feels like it’s clogged and someone is stomping on my chest.  It’s emotion.  Feeling displaced.  Both, it, and I…

Where am I?  This was a place I called home at some point, for some time.  The room has been transformed from a colorful teenage chaos filled with posters of Weimaraners dressed up as people and the beautiful face of Jim Morrison, to now, an office with two computer monitors and a couch that pulls out for my arrival.  My mother is sleeping in the room next door, ecstatic to have her little girl home, to tuck her in to a bed that was made with love for a sleepless night.  I drift in and out of consciousness, looking for home on this couch-bed, but home was left behind in Boulder, Colorado, and home is out, dancing and being free for a night away from me.

I try to push the Beagle over, to make some room for breath, for blood to reach my tingling feet, and in the innocence of her sleep, she growls.  Why am I here?  I gaze over and next to me, buried under a ton of heavy air sits “The Tibetan Book of The Dead,” and I remember that I am here to heal.   Here to process the anger that has been erupting like a volcano, being projected at home, on home; the anger that they say is the final stage in the grieving process.  But if grieving is cyclical and if grieving is a process, then how can there be a final step?  Perhaps, a spiral into the ether?

The healing has been slow.  Is slow.  I’ve allowed the past to partially scab over, but picking my scabs has become a bad habit.  Sometimes, I just don’t want to forget.  I scratch to remember what I have lost, longing to hold it close to my heart.  Other times, I wish is to forget, but I bump into things that remind me, and the wounds re-open, get dirty, infected.  I bump into babies on the street, or people who don’t know.  I run into people who know but are too uncomfortable to face me.  I bump into smells, sounds, tastes.  I run myself crazy with memories.

I don’t know what I bumped into tonight, in the room from my past or the room of my dreams, but I am startled awake, remembering and feeling; the density of life.  I miss my home.  I miss Leif.  I miss all that never was.  I’m learning how to live so that I know how to die.  I’m trying.

There will be scars, no doubt.  Wounds like these don’t go unnoticed.  Anger alone leaves streaks behind, welts the size of small mountains.  But I will take scars any day over fresh wounds.  The scars show that I’m a survivor.  My heart beats stronger, and day by day, I’m healing just a little bit more.

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Awake

I used to sleep like a baby, and not one that’s teething.  Even my lover’s snores were a distant soundtrack to my astral explorations.   These nights, I awake to the heater going off.  I hear everything speaking to me, whispering my name, pulling me away from my dream world.  My sleep got lighter during pregnancy, but now it’s a whole new story.  My sub-conscious awaits the cry of a baby that is not here.  The Mama in me wants to feed a ghost in the middle of the night the milk that has already dried up.  I hear the sound of a ticking clock from another room.  What is it telling me?  What is it time for?  I crave sleep, I want to sleep, but sleep does not come.  There is the new pain under my right shoulder blade, the thirst for something that cannot be quenched, the uncomfortable pillow, the bladder a quarter full, and then there are the thoughts.  I watch them hover over me.  Who am I?  Who have I become?  I am a night owl.  An insomniac.

Nathan rents movies that he falls asleep to.  I watch them because I can’t sleep.  Most of them are crappy movies from the redbox that I don’t want to watch but I can’t turn them off because then I’m stuck with my movie, which is worse.

Sometimes I cry to exhaust myself.  I remember falling asleep after crying as a child.  It comes to me easily, almost too naturally.  All I have to do is think of Leif, connect to that space of emptiness in my soul, and tears come up and roll out in numbers, like armies of ants.  I feel them trickle down my cheeks, entertained by the sensations they create.  The wells empty out but I still can’t sleep.  I’m left with a stuffy nose and a headache.

I scan my thoughts that come and go, trying hard to detach and observe.  I don’t know where they come from, but there are so many.  I’m flooded with inquiries, with the childlike curiosity of what this life means.  What is my purpose here?  I’m searching for the real in reality, breaking down solidity into particles, concepts into words, into syllables.  I’m learning a whole new alphabet.  I’m learning.  This experience has become my teacher.  With each new question, the burst of every new bubble I create, I’m taught something significant.

Perhaps I needed all this to wake up from the illusion of a perfect tomorrow, to bring me into the now.  As I lie there awake, there is only the now.  There is only the being, here in this space, and feeling what it’s like to be human.  In the sleepless hours of the night, under the fullness of the gleaming Leo moon, I am awake to the world, completely open to receive.  As I finally surrender, sleep creeps up and I’m cradled in a womb, drifting into the silence of the dawn.