This day is tight on my neck. This internal screeching, bloody, wailing me who comes by unexpectedly. Oh, actually expectedly. Perhaps if I paid attention I could avoid any and all triggers…yes that word…. But it does not come only from that. I carry it in my bones. My bones will produce these cells until I die. Today I acted like my world was functioning. Picked up my dog from the groomers, had a nice chat with her. That must have appeared functioning. Driving into the groomers parking lot I see the gun shop. It’s always there. They are always there. So this part of me who has arisen once again thinks oh so quickly of buying a gun. So I shove her disheveled head down below the wailing and pick up my dog. I just want it to stop. It is such work. Maybe like working in a mine with a teaspoon, chipping away as the pieces crumble in, filling the space I made once again. Again. Again. Journals, pottery, reading, reading again, meditating, gratefulness, looking for beauty. Breathing. Sometimes providing some space for good. But today is not….this moment is not….maybe I can push past it again. Again. Again. The clear, breathing, functioning part of me can do things. As a trashcan I bought for my car has printed on it: Beautiful girl you can do hard things. I can practice keyboard and play in the community musical. It feels good to play, to bring back a skill I had abandoned. To feel the music in my chest. To see young people acting, singing, dancing, interacting, loving life. But the simultaneous weaving of sorrow arises. These young adults remind me of my son. Smart, funny, musical, social, adventurous. I want to take one home with me and make him live with me and heal me. The keyboard playing reminds….everything can remind….any time. Playing the piano while my children played nearby. Their sound, their little bodies, sprinkled with notes of music. Be mindful. Be in the moment. Breathe. Allow it to come. It is too big, too jagged to allow. Oh, and therapy and medication. It helps. I can get out of bed, stand up, go to work, cook, clean, and look oh so functional. But it will kill me. It has invaded like cancer and will poison my body. Tremors….anxiety sweeping through my entire being. So it kills me. So what. Not always. Not all the time. Yes all the time. Just on one of those scales, zero to ten. But zero is never there. And let’s not forget this — I am a therapist. For 25 years. I can still somehow be present, be clinical, and care for my clients. While the grating soft hum of I should have…I could have…is rising from these cells in my bones. I know the truth. There was no stopping it. Twice. Twice. Twice. I did all I could. Twice. Twice. Twice. Enough for now. I will nap. Close it down, hold her head below the wailing once again.
