Tag Archives: stages of grief

“The Heart Breaks and Breaks and Lives…”

Remember the young love, the tumultuous and the difficult?  It would be a cause for arousing great anxieties — and for their dissipation, too — that would make one feel, at the very least, alive.  And for a gracious while, love could last on the suspended idealism of the two lovers:  Love conquers all.  Love will overcome…

Except that, sometimes — it wouldn’t.

Yet, even in that failure, one could confuse loving — for living.

“I think you’re, like, addicted to drama!” accused my last standing friend, Taisha, over sushi.  (She was actually sitting — cross-legged on a silk pillow — craning her neck over a bowl of udon noodle soup.  The long, swollen noodles shined through the brown broth with surprising starkness.)

“They’re famous for their noodles here!” proclaimed my last sitting friend.  She mostly spoke in exclamation points.  Taisha was always up on the hippest places to eat, in LA; and she spoke of them with a sense of urgency and worship, as if passing along the name of the best heart surgeon, in the country.

From the reclining passenger seat of her Prius, I had earlier protested:  “But I don’t even like sushi.”  I had been dragged out of my routine of melancholy and self-neglect; and even though I was glad to see the City’s never-ending light of day — grateful to have my heartbeat shocked back to its rhythm by the speed of it all — I still felt I had to throw a fit, just to suit the timeline a little better.  Because every love — had a timeline; and according to mine, I was still in the self-pitying stages of my mourning:

“My girlfriend.  Had left me.  For her ex.”

“Wasn’t it more like…  She never left her ex?!” Taisha was relentless.  Her people back in Kenya, whose suffering seemed to fit every argument of Taisha’s making (kind of like “Confucius say” of her own invention) — her people back in Kenya “were starving to death!  That’s tragedy!”  Whatever I was going through — was just “some frivolous, American bullshit”, including my current stage of raising objections to my god (for the likeness of whom I searched the faces of mortals) and confusing pity for compassion.  But where did I get off thinking that even compassion — was my right?

Taisha was right:  A soggy tissue in hand, my face — pruned, I better resembled a moody teenager, with no other tragedy in his life but the fact that his mother was in love with another man:

“Dad?” I would slobber into the phone, after each love affair’s turn for the worse; holding back my tears, otherwise they would be an admission of my failure.  I’d call, mostly out of needing a witness to my suffering, after the heart’s each little break.  (And what if these little heartbreaks surmounted to an unrepairable damage?  Maybe I did need the name of that surgeon, after all.)  “Is mom there?”

Before getting off the phone and passing off its receiver as some sort of a parental torch, my old man would manage to wedge in a lecture:

“Are you still in LA?  Gosh, kid!  What are you doing with your life?”

Prior to my decision to migrate to the West Coast, his lectures seemed better thought-out, better practiced.  In them, I could still hear the quotation marks of my mother’s gentle voice, as dad brought out the assumptions of my motifs and breakdowns of my troubled psyche.  But with time, he began to run out of breath.  Run out of words.

“I’m speechless,” he’d say, breathing heavily into the receiver, a pummeled heavyweight ready to count down the fights left in him, until his retirement.  “I’m utterly speechless, I tell you.”

Then, why speak at all?  “Please give the phone to mom.”

Speaking to mom was always malleable.  No matter with which expectations I marched into our a conversation, mom would always, capably, receive.  “My baby,” she’d half-whisper, with teary-eyed compassion catching her voice (for that was my right!).  Mom’s love was a place of warm breaths and moldable embraces that consumed so completely, I hardly wanted to come up for air.  There were no rhetorical questions, no passive-aggressive accusations; no drastic resignations at my expense.

“I give up,” was my father’s farewell every time, especially after we received his diagnosis of a coronary artery blockage.

Mom’s heart, on the other hand, was unblocked.  It was a space at which I could flail my objections to all the injustices of love — a padded room for the non-criminally insane and the criminally heart-broken.

 

In every affair, after the clothes had been untangled off of a lover’s body enough times to establish a routine to each other’s orgasms, things would begin to settle down.  Unavoidably.  Either the expectations of the sexual fantasies evaporated, unmet in most cases; or the two lovers would find themselves tired enough to settle down, giving room to domesticity.

Could you pick-up my dry-cleaning, dear?  Can you check on our bathtub drain, hun?

Our.  By the hour (for every love affair had its timeline), things would begin changing their possessives.

But love should never be possessive.  If you love something — set it free.

Or, so I heard from that one Canadian author who’d made a fortune from tinkering with the ideas of free will and self-liberation from fear, in his books.  Now! — he emphasized — “is what matters.  Focus on the Now!”  (His philosophy hit all the right notes with the youngest culture in the world that hadn’t acquired enough past to dwell on, yet — a culture whose grudges weren’t long enough to demand forgiveness.  The year — was, still, 2000.)  I, the American lover, had the Canadian’s tape rolling around  on the floor of my car; and at yet another little break of the heart, I’d attempt to listen to it.  His voice wouldn’t hum monotonously through the speakers for three minutes — and I would begin to fall asleep behind the wheel.  Yet another sleep-walker, in LA.  Another sleep-driver.  The Canadian Zen Master instructed for me to feel Nothing! in the Now!  Instead, I would feel so much! — “My heart would explode!”

(Seriously.  What was the name of that heart surgeon?)

Eventually, one simmered down.  Settled down.  Unavoidably:

Shouldn’t we just stay in, darling?  (Be weary of sharing spaces.  A home is only as safe as the compatibility of one’s habits.)

Do you wanna just rent a movie, doll?  (Words began colliding into each other, losing their endings:  wanna, gonna, sorta, kinda.  Familiarity attacked the language from its extremities, and it worked its way in.)

One suddenly found oneself falling in (long past having fallen in love, by now); falling into the softness of comfort you think you want, but suspect you may despise.  Because, with age and enough witnessed tales, marriage became to sound like a tired story.  And even if the fantasy could be prolonged for while — exhausting in itself, with its maintenance of reality’s suspension (which required its own discipline of rituals) — one would eventually agree to share a meal after sex via shortcuts.

And so, the familiarity would begin to slip in:  with a pair of earrings left behind on a dresser or an eventual invitation to spend the night.  (Although, in my history, it would always be accidental, like my crying myself to sleep on the couch after watching a rented flick.  A tired heart.)  But therein — exactly! — I would find my favorite parts.

And even though I despised my own desire to belong (not yet!  NOT Now!), I knew that after a night of shared sleep, things would demand being specified, even if it meant their ending.  Still, I would stay:  for the sake of learning the nooks along a lover’s body, measuring my curvatures against them:  the ying to the yang, the jig to the saw.  By then, the strained politeness of one lover’s visiting another’s bed would give room to exhaustion and voyeurism.  The secretly harbored hopes that, in their actuality, the lovers would be as glamorous as they had led each other to believe, would linger.  Please let there be no runs in the stockings or mascara!  No dirty underwear, no orphaned socks!

But the unconsciousness, already unleashed by tiredness, would begin to crowd the room, treading in the footsteps of the night’s shadows and revealing the private habits of both participants.  That’s when the true intimacy, however untimely or ungraceful, would knock on the door.

 

It would always be after the washing up (“I’m just gonna rinse-off, quickly!”), both of our skins emitting the perfumes of shared supplies, that Nina would stretch out on top of the covers — a big cat baby-talking of her kitten days:

“I love baths, don’t you?” she purred.

“Ah!  That’s the smell!” the recognition would piece itself together, as I buried my nose behind her earlobe or in the small of her back, where each pore was still exhaling the heat it had endured in the water of nearly scorching temperatures.  With every pore, she breathed against my face.

When love first reared its outlines, I would want to leave, wearing her on my skin.  I succeeded, but only in that point along the timeline:  only after using Nina’s toiletries — after the familiarity, the domesticity, the intimacy of co-habitation knocked on the door.  Each lover became a mere chart of chemical elements, taken apart, and then yielded together again.

She flipped over:  “I feel safe with you.”

My darling girl.  She was younger.  Young enough to belong to the previous generation that suffered from ailments I’d never even heard of, in my time.  Learning disabilities and controversial psychological malfunctions, with acronyms instead of names.  But the young were smarter than us (as well as they’re suppose to be).  Never before had the generation gap been so gaping:  a giant jaw chomping out chunks of common ground.  These kids would be more advanced, savvier with technology — and more impatient with humanity.  They spoke a whole different language, filled with abbreviations and smiley faces.  The generation of the easily distracted and bored, and of the perpetually amused.  LOL.

And then, she would kiss me, loudly; and while her muscles melted around the bones of her back, I rested my head above her heart and traced the constellations of the beauty marks in the tides of her falling, rising, and falling again stomach; while her chest visibly vibrated, a restless heart fluttering in the confines of her ribcage.  An unblocked heart of the young.

(To Be Continued.)

“See the Stone Set in Your Eyes, See the Thorn Twist in Your Side — I Wait…”

The shades were closed.  The house was dark.  It had always struck me strange the way she’d keep all windows locked down, in order to keep the cold air inside.  The manufactured cool would dry out her skin and the house would smell mechanical.  She’d complain, blow the arid air through her deviated septum; then slather her age spots with some sort of bleaching cream.

She lived too close to the dessert; and only late at night, she’d give the house fans a rest.  Their constant humming would finally die down, and suddenly the sounds of gentle quietness in nature would be overheard through an occasionally open window.  The skin of my scalp would relax at the temples:  I would forget to notice my constant frown during the 20-hour long humming.  My face acquired new habits since living in this house, and I was beginning to forget the girl who had been asked to pay the price of her childhood — in an exchange for the better future.

But on that day, it was too early to allow the nature to come in, yet.  And as I entered the empty house, I immediately noticed the hum.  I had been gone for half a week:  too short of a time to forget the climate of this house entirely — and most definitely not enough to forgive it!  I took off my shoes, remembering the stare she’d give her visitors whenever they were too oblivious to obey.  Slowly, I began to pass from room to room.

The light gray carpet that covered most of the house’s footage was immaculately clean.  And if there was an occasional rug — under a chair or a coffee table — it usually marked an accidental spill of food or drink by a very rare house guest.  I’d be the only one who knew that though:  I’d witness all their hidden faults.  And she would run the vacuum every night, pulling and yanking it in very specific directions.  Those vacuum markings had to remain there undisturbed; and only those who didn’t know better were kindly permitted to destroy them with their footsteps.

I opened the bedroom’s double doors first but found no courage to come in.  Instead, I stood on the cold titles, on the other side, and studied the footsteps by her bed.  There was a cluster of them, right by the nightstand.  Is that where she had been picked up by the paramedics?  I looked for outlines of boots imprinted into the fur of the carpet.  I thought I saw none.

The living room carpet seemed undisturbed.  The markings of the vacuum, which she must’ve done the night before, were still perfectly parallel.  The cold tiles of the kitchen floor had no residue of food.  She’d wash those on her hands and knees with paper towels.  And she would go over it until the wet towel would stop turning gray.  No dishes in the sink.  No evidence of an unfinished meal.  No evidence of life at all.  I began to wonder where she’d collapsed.

The door to my former bedroom was shut.  Most likely, it had remained so since I’d departed.  I made it to the office — the only space where some disarray was less prohibited.  The bills where broken down by due dates and neatly piled perpendicularly, on top of one another.  Her husband had a habit of resting his feet on the edge of the corner desk, as he played on the computer for hours, until she’d fall asleep.  Then, he’d come into my bedroom.

My bedroom.  Its door was closed.  I turned the handle and expected for the usual catch of its bottom against the rug that she insisted on keeping on the other side.  Strangely, it covered up no visible spots.  I pushed it open.

It was a sight of madness.  One woman’s rage had turned the place into a pile of shredded mementos, torn photos and broken tokens of forsaken love.  The bedcovers were turned over.  The sheets had been peeled off the mattress two-thirds down, as if by someone looking for the evidence of liquids near my sex.  The stuffed toys which normally complete my line-up of pillows were now strewn all over the floor, by the wall opposite of my headrest.

On top of an overturned coffee table I saw my letters:  My cards to her and hers — to me.  She’d even found the letters in my parents’ hand, and she shredded them to piece.  Nothing was off limits.  No love was sacred after hers had been betrayed.

I stepped inside to see the other side of one torn photograph that flew the closest to the door.  At first, I tried to catch my breath.  A feeling on sickly heaviness got activated in the intestines.  In murder mysteries that she adored to watch with me, I’d seen detectives scurry off into the corner furthest from the evidence, and they would throw up — or choke at least — at the atrocity of crimes against humanity.  Apparently, my insides wanted to explode from the other end.

I paced myself.  Carefully, that I, too, would not collapse, I bent down and picked up the shredded photo.  It was my face, torn up diagonally across the forehead.  On the day of my high school graduation, her husband had come over to the side of the fence where we were beginning to line up.  I can see the faces of my classmates in the background.  They smiling at his lens.  They are supposed to, as he — was “supposed” to be my father.

He was not.  And I’m not smiling.  I’ve raised one eyebrow, and my lips are parted as if I’d just told him to fuck off.  Not even there, he would allow for me to be without him.  Not even there, I could be alone for long enough to remember the girl who’d been asked for her childhood in an exchange… for what?

“Told You I’ll Be Here Forever, Said I’ll Always Be Your Friend…”

Someone had once said that there were no closures, in life.

I had read that yesterday afternoon, while I waited for LA-LA’s haze to clear.  It never did.  Because by the time I saw the anticipated clarity of the sky — something we all think we’re entitled to, around here, on the daily basis — the smog had already crawled in, like just another cloud; and it was time to call it a night.  Or, it was time to call it an evening, at least.

So, I kept on reading, sprawled out on the floor among my books and collecting random bits of opinions by others that have come — and written — before me; in possible hopes that someone would do it a little better than them, down the road…

But then, someone had once said that there were no closures, in life.

That life — didn’t really work that way.  That it consisted of choices — poor choices and those that were slightly better — all conducted in reaction to complete chaos.  And then, of course, there would be consequences to those choices as well; and more choices — poor and those that were slightly better — would follow, in reaction to more consequences.  And on, and on, and on:  Life would carry on, with the better of us learning to commit slightly better choices.  And a life with the biggest majority of better choices, I suppose, would make for a life, best-lived.

Pretty bleak, that thing that someone had said once.  And it would keep me distraught for the rest of the day.  I also knew it would keep me awake, when it would finally be time to call it a night.  Or, to call it an evening, at least.

So:  By the time it became clear that LA-LA’s haze would never clear yesternight, I left the house for the other side of town, speeding through its residential streets, in search of a catharsis if not an adventure.  Occasionally, I would wave at other drivers to let them have their right of way; and most would appear slightly surprised — at my better choice.  When the exhausted joggers and the defensive pedestrians waited to be noticed at intersections, I would make eye contact with them and nod.  And at some, I would even smile:  Like the sporty Jewish mother in her Lulu pants with a pretty but androgynous child inside a baby carriage, on Robertson.  Or the tired Mexican man, in dusty clothes, pushing along his cart with leftovers of souring fruit, from his selling island on Venice and Fairfax.  Or the two young lovelies, who despite the never cleared LA-LA’s haze, decked themselves out in delicious frocks; enticing me with their tan legs and taut arm exposed, on Abbot Kinney.

I nodded, I smiled.  I waved, on occasion.  In some odd state of calm resignation, I found myself in adoration — with the never cleared city.  That mood, ever so close to surrender, would be my slightly better choice, for the evening (even though I wouldn’t think about it long enough to realize its further consequences).

But then, someone had once said that there were no closures, in life.  That life didn’t really work that way.  That is was all chaos, random choices with their even more random consequences.

Later, while I waited for a rendezvous with a man so luminous and kind he would make me want to forgive all others that came before him, I lost track of time in a conversation with a friend.  A friend that had been a comrade at first, then a lover; until we would make a poor choice to put an end to it; then a slightly better one — to preserve what was left.  He had once asked me why I kept in touch with those that had come before him.

“For the stories,” I would respond, immediately surprising myself with the clarity of my choice.

At the time, he would find that choice slightly poor.  But yesterday evening, he had to finally see it — as a slightly better one.  (Redemption, at last!)  Because in my stories, I had become a researcher of consequences.  And perhaps my act of defiance had come from the fear of being forgotten — the fear of being inconsequential — but I would choose to remember, him and those that had come before him, and I would keep track of our stories.  And also, I would keep track of our choices — however poor or good — in possible hopes that at least one of us would do it a little better, the next time, somewhere down the road.

And no matter the choices, no matter the consequences, all along, I would insist on kindness.  That way, in the end, in addition to the intimacy that could soothe a broken heart, there would a new sensation:  Something, that for the first time yesternight, to the two of us, would feel like grace — some sort of stubborn choice to be slightly better.

Yes, someone had once said that there were no closures, in life.  That life didn’t work that way.

But last night, in the midst of the never cleared LA-LA haze, I dared to differ:  Although others indeed could not always grant closures for my own life — or for our mutual stories; I would always make the slightly better choice for forgiveness.  And isn’t forgiveness — just another name for closure, anyway?

Oops, I Did It Again! (and Other Psychological Disorders)

Crawled out of my skin last night, hung it on the door knob and, till this very gloomy morning, I haven’t put it back on yet.  Stark naked I write to you, my comrades — souls all over the world who share with me no private history but the common ground of humanity.  And every once in a while, completely unexpected (for my art needs no reason to exist), I hear your “Gotcha!” echo via an electronic transmission; and in that moment, you’ve gotta know:  you repair my very heart.  So:  Fuck yeah!  Fuck da!  Thank you for reading!

Still stripped and skinless, superimposed by the little girl I once was a few decades ago in a country that exists no longer, I am about to have a lil’ tete-a-tete on the topic of grief.  ‘Cause you see, you magnificent co-participants in the utter chaos of living — I’ve got me a shit load o’ that.  (“A shit load,” by the way, is V’s democratic solution between the metric system of her Motha‘ Russia — and the rest of the world — and that other one she still doesn’t know how to convert to.)

I haven’t lived long, my comrades, but certainly a lot; enough to accumulate some losses.  I’ve lived through deaths, heartbreaks, break-ups and a divorce.  I’ve commemorated violence — others’ and my own — by jotting it down on my skin.  I’ve been thrown around by historical turmoil and have survived poverty.  And although I still insist on calling upon humanity’s goodness, I have seen it at its very worst.

And that is exactly where grief comes from:  From its mama — the Loss. I wiki-ed it for you, my stubbornly good people; and according to wiki-wiki, it’s “a multi-faceted emotion.” A free-for-all, eh?  And emotional twofer.  A Round Table for your every feeling.  (A’right, V:  Settle down with those metaphors!)  Numbness, blame, sadness and anger — yep, I’ve done ‘em all, a shit load of each, to be precise.  But the part of grief that I still seem to be unable to reach — like the only dream I deem to be impossible — is acceptance.

I gotta tell you, I have managed my forgiveness of others, “for they know not what they do,” right?  (But that IS a funny one though:  forgivenessFor me, it rests somewhere between mercy and the resignation of justice. In other words, only when I’ve suffered enough and when I want to be justified or carry the weight of the mistakes no longer — I cry uncle and I forgive.  Sometimes, forgiveness results in dismissing the offender entirely:  leaving him to his own devices and never wanting to hear from him again.  Other times, my forgiveness is more peaceful:  It permits for a friendship after the shit storm settles; but boy, do I tread carefully there.)

But acceptance:  That one — is a bit of a moody bitch for V.  Just when I think I’ve tranquilized the ghosts of my past, some current player wakes them with his misbehavior; and off I go:  reliving the emotional free-for-all of griefs I thought have already exorcised and put to sleep.  (“Hush, hush, you little monsters!”)  And if I’ve learned anything from my relationship with my beloved shrink:  these above mentioned players — the hooligans that set me off — are here for a reason.  They are part of V’s pattern.  Kinda like that Britney song:  “Oops, I Did it Again!” — right?  So, until I figure my shit out — the hooligans will continue to pop-up out of my Pandora’s Box.  (Does that sound naughty, or is it just me?)

So, I am starting to gain some unsettling glimpses at the correlation between acceptance and self-forgiveness.

“DING-DING-DING-DING-DING!”

— I can forgive others:  Check!

— I can forgive my life for its sorrows:  Check!

— But can I forgive myself for my choosing all the wrong hooligans in the past chapters of my life?  Not so fast, you Russian gypsy!  Thus far, it’s been seemingly easier — messier, but easier — for the vagabond in me to pack-up and run away.  I am a woman with no country after all!  But alas, to stay and to deal with the hand I’ve been given (or rather, I’ve given myself) — that, my comrades, has been much harder.  Because at the end of it:  I must hold myself accountable. Isn’t much easier to blame others; to parade your scars and bad deals in order to earn the compassion of your witnesses?  Or to suspend your self-forgiveness via embarrassment?  Yep.  But in the end — I’m SO gonna go existentialist on my own ass here (no pun intended) — it’s between you and you.  Or rather, it’s between me and me.

Well, that’s enough psychology for one Saturday morning, nyet?  I’m gonna go put my skin back on and get to work, my adored boys ‘n’ girls.  But in the mean time, allow me to leave you with this little bit of wisdom by another foreign comrade-in-arms.  (Shit!  We, foreigners, do like to get heavy!):