Author: sheilahjfrench

2019

I’m going to stop being careful. What am I being careful for?? Jaysus.

Seriously, I need to go to codependents anonymous.

Maybe part of the reason I procrastinate doing things I WANT to do is because I’m so bloody self-conscious and tentative about actually doing something FOR MYSELF, acting for my own good.

Maybe that has something to do with my hesitation/blocking of feeling joy when it’s there.

P.S

To Vaughn and Don in case you think you need to chime in: I’m still stuck here, in the middle of humandom–with snot coming out of my nose and weird thoughts I can’t control…so I don’t want your fucking advice. And that goes for both of you!!!

2019

A lot of what died with Vaughn were my own ideas: the idea of watching him grow into adulthood, the idea of always being able to see him–hear his voice, the idea of being the mother of two children–of watching their relationship change and grow over time. The idea of meeting his children. Laughing with him at the dinner table. Hearing his ideas about books and life and politics and people. Meeting his girlfriends. Supporing him in the inevitable romantic disappointments. Gradually knowing him as one adult to another.

So a lot of my grief is for the death of those expectations. Ideas my mind had formed, and new ones that still arise. Something I hadn’t thought of that I will not experience, such as hearing about his first job, or maybe the way he might have stopped by to help me move something heavy, will pop into my head with an accompanying shock of fresh grief.

These griefs are real in their way. Many of us grieve lost opportunities apparently. Actually I’m not sure grief is the right word. I think it’s a word that’s come to be used and thrown around too much. Regret, perhaps, would be a better word.

But for me those moments of regretting–pining for lost experiences that were only ever constructions of my mind to begin with…well they’re part of my experience, yes. I won’t beat myself up for it. But I should try to recognize them for what they are–the regret, the loss–of an idea. It is not the same as the grief of the loss of my child. To confound them is to cause myself additional suffering. And perhaps even to lose touch with that pure grief: the loss of Vaughn–my first-born child–no longer here on the planet with me.

I must amend that by saying: not with me in his embodied form. Okay Vaughn?

2019

Sleepy and numb today–not knowing what to do with myself. And judgemental–goes without saying–in this state which I have experienced so often in my life. So often that it feels like ‘me’. The real me. Depressed, disoriented and drifting.

Is it a chemical issue? Is it grief? Is it philosophical, existential? I tell myself it will pass. I wonder how anyone can love me. I feel sorry for myself–I wish I didn’t have these feelings.

But I always have. The grayness that encompasses me. A smothering glove.

And when I feel joy–is it fake? Something I borrow from my circumstances? Rely on others for?

I don’t know I don’t know I don’t know.

I know I PREFER the joy. How could one not? I try not to chase it–but I do a bit. I probably need to try harder not to reject the fog. But ugh.

Funny thing is that I love fog. It’s so beautiful and alive as it slithers through the hills. Yet it does muffle sounds and block out light.

The apples are forming; a woodpecker is hopping backwards down the tree trunk; someone’s barbequing; Minky’s installed on the lounge next to me performing a post-prandial wash.

Next door Bob’s door opens and closes–what is his life like–an elderly alcoholic–and how much sympathy do I have for him? And how hard am I on myself?

And how did I get so fucking old???

29 June 2019

Anam Thubten says a lack of acceptance creates conflict. That conflict creates psychological pain.

He’s talking about an acceptance of what is: the tiny things and the big things.

Do I accept that Vaughn has died from this life? More so than I used to, I guess. I don’t wake up with that shocked feeling as often.

But I haven’t completely shaken the feeling that there was some kind of mistake. Intellectually I know that my son died. I know sons die sometimes. I know other parents who have lost their sons.

But Vaughn?? That collection of unique traits and gentleness and insight? That crafty smile and devilish sense of humor? That sweet sweet soul who had so much potential in this world? My boy that I held close in my arms like my own heart?

The universe must have wobbled–gone slightly off course–just for a fraction of a nanosecond, for that to happen. Vaughn slipped through a tiny crack in the cosmos.

And then he was gone. And I can’t reach him, drag him back, no matter what I do. No matter how much I dredge through all my missteps. Everybody’s missteps. Society’s failings.

I suppose the less I ruminate on all the thousand of moments that somehow converged into Vaughn’s leaving this world, the more I will be able to say I accept his death.

But I still know the universe cracked.

6 April 2019

I locked the massage room door so I could cry. So the monster could roam through me.

And now I want it to go back to normal.

I hope the storm is over. That’s me not wanting to suffer. Not wanting the pain.

I thought: How can I possibly live an ‘ordinary’ life, full of my silly little preferences and annoyances. It’s all fake, a pretense–a pushing away of what’s real. And the only thing that’s real is that Vaughn died.

Or maybe what I mean is that my only real feeling is the horror and pain in those terrible moments that seem like a confrontation with inescapable reality.

Pain that comes from my body, from my animal soul.

As if all my other emotions are tainted by my mind and are therefore frivolous…manufactured in some way for my own inner audience.

Fifteen minutes later I’m in the shower wondering how I can let my hair grow out in the least ugly way and thinking about buying some makeup for old ladies.

I know nothing. This is just how it is.

5 February 2019

I have just put into my blog a journal page from 2016 where I wrote about my pain at the stupid decision I made to let Vaughn go back on Ritalin. And yes, I almost feel like I encouraged him.

And there it is again–the guilt–no, much much more than guilt. The extreme regret and self-hatred I feel at having made that very poor decision.

It’s like being smothered. I can’t go back and think about it more carefully this time.

I’m sorry Vaughn. You said I didn’t let you down–you must have known I would be sure I had.

I’m absolutely positive I let you down–numerous times–at the exact same time as I know I’m being unfair to myself.

All that matters is that you are gone.

I can feel guilty. I can hate myself. I can forgive myself. It doesn’t matter what I think, you are still gone.

But that is too harsh my darling, because you can never be gone from me. But I can’t see you or touch you or talk to you–not in the flesh anyway.

Oh I am rambling. I love you Vaughn.

14 September 2018

This evening is so thick and toasty I could eat it. It would be like eating brie spread on…thick whole wheat toast. Yummy and smooth and not shiny or pretentious.

Comforting.

I can hear a hummingbird buzzing reassuringly around me. Almost like a purr.

A flying purr.

6 September 2018

It’s hurting now. I’m not falling down–I realize my life is good in many ways.

But it’s hurting.

He’s so real to me, as though he’s standing just on the other side of a velvet curtain, or across a dark chasm. I sense him there yet I can’t see him. I can’t touch him.

I swear he is telling me: I’m right here Mom.

I am crying almost with the pleasure of feeling him so close.

25 July 2018

My friend visited me today.

My not very nice friend–more of a frenemy.

The one who tells me, or ‘reminds’ me, of how and why I’m responsible for Vaughn dying.

Very hard to argue with that friend. Because I could have done so many things differently. Because I could have been kinder. Mainly, it seems to me now, I could have been wiser.

I don’t seem to be able to break ties with this friend, even though she makes me feel like shit. She makes me cry. She makes me feel worthless and stupid.

Like I said–not a very good friend.

I don’t think I owe that friend anything. Vaughn knows my pain. He knows my regret. He knows my love.

Vaughn forgives me. I’m sure he does.

This friend is not helping me. She is not helping Vaughn. She is not helping the world.

This is a friend I don’t need in my life anymore.

 

22 June 2018

The beginning of a warm day; right now it’s a perfectly comfortable temperature here in the dappled shade.

A herd of those tiny birds chase one another through the oak and clematis.

A neighbor is drilling or sawing; the occasional car rumbles by out front.

And each warm breath of air against my cheek comes with a reminder that Vaughn is not here.