Did I really wish for a good cry? How cute…

A good cry? HAH! I laugh in the face of a good cry. I don’t do ‘good cries’. I do forced-march-blind-with-pain purges.


A good cry? HAH! I laugh in the face of a good cry. I don’t do ‘good cries’. I do forced-march-blind-with-pain purges.

Did I really wish for a good cry? I’d like to say ‘be careful what you wish for’ in a sweet, smug sing-song voice but really, I can’t. I’d like to have gotten what I wished for but I didn’t. For a couple of days, I thought I’d gotten my wish. I cried. It was good. It included a picture of a tragically cute dog. I was fooled into complacency and then – wham. Why do I always forget that this is not how it works? Is it some kind of pain of childbirth memory block?

“The Fantasy”beautiful-fantasy-girl crying

I am tired, stressed, and stick-a-fork-in-me done. It’s usually the end of a big project and regardless of the brilliance and beauty of the end result, I’m strung out. I need … something. In my romantic, wishful thinking lizard brain, I imagine that a ‘good cry’ will do it. Some sort of episode that generates cleansing tears of relief and transition. An event where I’m ensconced in pillows and heave deep, heart-felt tears into soft cloth hankies. I will emerge on the other side with a clear head, glowing skin, and resolve.

“The Reality”

I am tired, stressed, and stick-a-fork-in-me done. It’s usually the end of a big project and regardless of the brilliance and beauty of the end result, I’m strung out. I need … something. I search and search and try to do the right thing and try to take care of myself and have patience and try not to become progressively more and more of a raving bitch. I fail. I fail more. I fail bigger. And bigger and bigger until my failure combined with exhaustion tips me over the edge. I hit full blown PTSD breakdown.

Day 1 is spent being utterly shattered and wracked in agonizing pain. If you’ve never suffered this, I’m not going to try to explain right now. If you have, I feel you blanching in horror with me.

Day 2 is spent being hypersensitive to light, sound, thought, breathing, and whatnot.

Day 3 is energized. Today is day 3.

I’d like another option, please. I grudgingly accept that good cry is a dumb wish for me. My extreme brain chemistry doesn’t get the cleanse. But, is this horrid mental purge the only option? Is this the way it’s always going to be? No figuring, reasoning, bargaining or trying something constructive has eliminated this process for me. Holy crap. On the bright side, it is shorter than it used to be. I’m kind of functional after one day.

I have no pithy conclusion other than the truth. Will it set me free? Perhaps, in a way. It doesn’t change this currently inevitable process but at least I’m not lying to myself about it. Oh, and perhaps I should calendar this cycle. Remove sharp objects. Lay in bottled water. Prep for fallout.

Significantly,

Susan

March 16, 2010

Here’s to letting it hurt.


Good morning, words.  What shall we say today?

I started to write something really defensive and my alarm bells rang.  Yes, that was the noise you just heard.  The tearing sound that immediately that followed was me stopping myself.

Why am I feeling defensive?  In ‘the most obvious answer is usually the truth’ category, I’m starting to ramp up for my visit to Mom this weekend.  Is that it?

Hmmm… Yep.  My throat just constricted and my heart started racing.

I suspect that this may be the last time I see her when there’s a possibility that she’ll know who I am.  Even then, I still won’t be able to say the things I want to say to her.  I won’t be able to ask her the questions that I want to ask.  Not that I’m afraid to.  I simply doubt her ability to answer them.  And, unless I’m really looking for answers, the only other reason to ask would be to cause her pain.  And, I don’t want to do that.

A lovely woman recently wrote just to tell me that she’d heard about what I was going through and to express her support.  I thought, wow that is so wonderful and so kind.  And, I was a little bewildered, but I’m not anymore.  I’ve allowed it to seep in.  I’ve allowed the pain to break through and start flowing on it’s natural course.

Thank you, Nicole.  Thank you, everyone.  I’m going to see my Mom in a few days and I’m going to do the best I can.  And I’m going to do it for all of us.  I’m going to do it consciously and with love.  It hurts and that’s okay.  It’s cleansing some muck out of the way.

Here’s to admitting that it hurts and letting it.  It’s the only way for it not to anymore.

Significantly,

Susan Scot Fry

Update… I’m okay.  Thanks for letting me feel bad.

I also woke up this morning and discovered a splinter in my finger from clearing a bit of brush yesterday.  Also Mom’s fault.  🙂  She’s has such a love for getting filthy in the garden.  Me too.

Thanks, Mom.