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Mom's
Paul's "Frank Sinara" pose. He's actually giving a toast here at his friend Kag's wedding. Food for thought I asked Morrie if he felt sorry for himself. "Sometimes in the mornings," he said. "That’s when I mourn. I feel around my body. I move my fingers and my hands--whatever I can still move--and I mourn what I’ve lost. I mourn the slow, insidious way in which I’m dying. But then I stop mourning." Just like that? "I give myself a good cry if I need it. But then I concentrate on the good things still in my life. On the people who are coming to see me. On the stories I’m going to hear...." "Mitch, I don’t allow myself any more self-pity than that. A little each morning, a few tears and that’s all." I thought about all the people I knew who spent many of their waking hours feeling sorry for themselves. How useful it would be to put a daily limit in self-pity. Just a few tearful minutes, then on with the day. And if Morrie could do it with this horrible disease. -Tuesdays with Morrie I am a theatre critic OK...so it's a new "career", but if you're interested in reading my reviews, go here Updated 2/11/01 WHAT I'M READING... Christmas gift from my friend, Diane, who felt it was time I learn more about Australia also He, She and It Steve tells me I have to read this book. WHAT I WATCHED... Schlock NBC Comedy night: 3rd
Rock (I'm not necessarily proud of this) That's it for today!
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A BROKEN HEART STILL BEATS 21 February 2001 Sometimes things happen in a day which almost seem to have been truly directed by a higher power. As Steve is fond of saying, I try to be spiritual, but I’m definitely not religious, having a lot of problems with organized religions. But I do believe in a God, or a higher power, or a "something." And today that "something" was working overtime. I’ve been realizing lately that as well as I appear to be functioning, I’m really not. Somehow in the last few months, things have seemed increasingly overwhelming. I don’t think even Walt has been aware of how I’ve been feeling. My house is out of control, my weight is out of control, my eating is out of control, my work is out of control, my life feels out of control. I seem to be getting more and more frazzled inside and not knowing where to go or how to bring myself under control. I had worked with a therapist a couple of times, the first time after my father died and the second time after David died. I’d seen her once or twice after Paul died, but I really felt I was handling this second death all right and though grieving a lot, grieving appropriately. After all, this was a path I’d trod before and I knew the signposts. I had a major breakdown just before Thanksgiving the first year, but had done just fine ever since. Except I’m sleeping 4 hours a night, with or without alarm (true, I usually set the alarm for 4 hours, but even when I decide to "sleep in" I generally wake up in 4 hours); my work is so backed up because I can’t seem to get motivated. Everything is an effort. I cry easily, though usually hide it from people. I can’t concentrate on anything and can’t remember diddily any more (which could be a function of an aging brain, of course). I don’t really enjoy social events and would prefer to stay home. If Walt weren’t coming home at night many days I’d just stay in night clothes because it doesn’t seem worth it to get dressed. Yesterday out of curiosity, I looked for a depression test on line. We used to give these tests when I worked for a psychiatrist. It’s nothing more than an indication of the patient’s mental state, but it does give you a clue. I figured I’d register depressed. I didn’t realize I’d register "moderately to severely depressed." Oh. Gee. Maybe I’m not "dealing" as well as I thought. D’ya think? So the therapist and I spent a soggy hour today. She pointed out to me, as has been pointed out to me by a friend in AA who recognizes familiar symptoms, that for as long as she’s known me (15 years) I seem to live my life in highs and lows and very little middle-ground. Either I’m ecstatic or I’m miserable. Kathy finally talked today about a possible chemical imbalance and suggested I think about an antidepressant. She also mentioned possible group therapy. In the short run, she wants me to get a physical exam, since I’m overdue for one and rather than wait a whole month before seeing her, to return next week so we can start looking at how best to get me onto some sort of even keel. When I got home, I turned on Oprah and happened to catch Dr. Phil McGraw, whose subject was teaching people how to forgive themselves. While I have never had any guilt about either Paul’s death or David’s death, Dr. Phil’s words hit home so strongly that I stopped dead in my tracks to listen to what he had to say. He was talking to a mother whose son died in an auto tragedy that happened when she was a few minutes late in getting to the car (the car rolled over him when he was trying to push the car back into position after he’d let the brake off). The accident happened ten years ago and the mother can’t get past her guilt about being late meeting her kids at the car. Dr. Phil suggested to her that somehow she had the irrational fear that if she gave herself permission to lose the pain and to get on with her life, it would be dishonoring the memory of her love for her son, that somehow she felt the only way to remain close to him was to continually feel pain. He suggested that she was feeling that if she got on with life, began to enjoy herself, that she would lose the special love they shared. He pointed out to her that yes, they had shared a very special love while the son was alive but that it was a dishonor to that love to carry the pain for so long. He talked about how much more real the love would be if she could concentrate on the joy they shared and not on the pain of his loss. His words resonated. I’m going to have to mull that over and see if that’s really what I’ve been doing. But somehow I feel there was some higher power that had me turn on that television at that particular moment in time. The path of grief is a winding one and just when I think I have a handle on it, something comes along to slam me down again and get it all churning once more. Maybe it’s time I really do some work with Kathy on this and get back to the business of living. It isn’t a way of saying goodbye to the love; it’s a way of keeping it.
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Some pictures from this journal |
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Created 2/19/01 by Bev Sykes |
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