I'm not going to post what I had been planning to post today.
I'm not in the mood.
Oh, it's a lovely day with sunshine & easter clothes and we just returned from a beautiful brunch with friends and babies. I smiled a lot.
Now my phone is ringing, and now the tune letting me know someone is leaving me a message. Some other lovely friends perhaps, suggesting a get together for this evening. I will listen to it later.
Now I will freewrite & then post it. Free write about feeling longing instead of joy. Longing for something I can't name. I'm prone to longing. I come from a long line of depressed people, so biochemically satisfaction can feel quite dull. I prefer sharpness, sharp feelings, sharp piercings as I reeeeach towards...what?
Yesterday? The richest of longings is nostalgia, brimming with specific smells and snippets of songs, loving ghosts and shadows of things that can no longer hurt us. Sometimes I miss the feeling of being little, of being at home, in my place, my decade, my own lovely little body.
Tomorrow? The next big adventure. The next romance. Tomorrow is when I will accomplish big things, reach my potential, be noticed, recognized, appreciated. Awhile back, I made three cross-country moves in three years. Adventure! And when in new places surrounded by new faces, I felt homesick for something that never existed.
And on and on it goes, yesterday was beautiful, tomorrow will be better but today is not right.
I've had therapy. Learned to meditate. Read Eckhart Tolle. I took prozac for about a year many years ago while learning to recognize and correct negative thought patterns. I am centered and content and grateful for all that I have.
Except for when I'm not.
(Good) Friday when I got to work there was a little Chinese boy who I never met before waiting for me to take him to the prison to visit with his mom. She has been in there for a year already and this was his first visit. He sat in the backseat of the van as I drove around picking up all the other children I was taking to the jail, and I tried to stop feeling like a giant sponge, absorbing his fear of what the prison would look like, his grief about his mom being gone so long, his excitement over the day he thought would never come. I tried talking with him, but I had to concentrate on finding my way to the next pick-up.
Next in the van is a sullen African American pre-teen, and after that a tiny little white girl, who looks about four but is almost eight. They all sit together in the back seat and I try to focus on finding the next house in another part of town. Do not absorb their grief. Do not absorb their fear. Thank heavens the next girl was a rambunctious nine year old who started right away with jokes and songs and making all the other kids laugh. The sound of their giggles calmed me enough that I could focus on my mapquest directions. I am often lost.
The nine year old's mom murdered her youngest daughter. But she's better now, the mom is. Medication has taken away the psychosis and this nine year old cannot wait to see her. The stories of the children I work with give me a good reason to be sad. Otherwise, I'd just be self-indulgently sad.
Eight years ago I went on a pilgrimage to Our Lady of Guadalupe in Mexico City. I don't remember why. I'm not religious. I was raised Catholic, but hadn't been to a church in decades. I was not in need of healing. I'm looking through old journals to find my reasons, but I never wrote them. I just said I'm going to Mexico City in March. (You know you're middle aged when reading your own journal is like reading a new suspense novel.)
So for reasons I don't quite remember, I found myself in THE spot which contains all of the profound longing of millions of people for thousands of years. "Am I not your mother?" La Virgen de Guadalupe comforts us as we fold in on ourselves, depleted by despair and loneliness.
The young and old literally crawl on their knees here, across stone, to this spot where she came to comfort. Peasants, pilgrims and tourists, black, brown and white are all around me, sobbing. The longing rips at my heart. It feels good.
"I want to die. I want to die." My mother confessed to me that she chants this to herself all of the time. All of the time. She is not sick or in pain. There is nothing terrible happening in her life. And so she sleepwalks towards death and I crawl after her, but not really. I have a great life. I have wonderful friends. I'm going to go listen to the voice message now and see what fun awaits me.
My life is incredible. I get WAY more than I give. (really.) Disregard what I said before about sadness and longing. I'm fine.
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Comments
I love this piece, Caroline. It is so clear and true. _r xo
Rated, of course.
Kisses,
Marcela
xoxo
So much resonates. It is the curse of the thinking woman, I think, to feel so deeply, which brings with it such joy and such sadness, sometimes simultaneously. If it makes any difference, you're not alone.
And remember, at this moment, you are fine. You're okay. And we're here for you.
in other words ditto!
The thinking woman's curse...I like the sound of that!
Your ability to freewrite is lovely
...next please, well I've been going back & editing.
And trust me, this job that you do with children, that is worthwhile. The writing you do makes you an artist.
There are days and then there are days.
But today you are fine and that should suffice.
May you be blessed and well.
And thank you, M. Chariot.
Good post.
R
It's an interesting statement, perhaps indicative of the ways in which we are pulled toward the abyss . . . or at least abyssimal thinking . . . either way, it resonates.
Rated, rated, rated (wish I could rate it three times).
You uplifted my heart. Those precious children were so lucky to be with you on that ride to the prison. What a gift you are.
I am older than you, Caroline, and I still do not know why there are such changes, pretty radical ones. For me, it's very context-sensitive. Around good people with fun energy I'm great. In a ditch for whatever reason, I just have learned to bear it, knowing it will pass. Maybe this is true for you or maybe it is not. R
There are so many elements in this that I relate to. I am pretty sure we're all just alone, together.