My Arrival, My Simple Survival

I am nervous as I write this, because its content is more personal in nature and it may come across unintentionally as a less-than-subtle request for pity and (so NOT what I intend) a veiled "hint" for certain attention, but it feels more cathartic to write it than not. For the past few days I have been in a personal turmoil - one that, suffice it to say, involves heartbreak and sadness over an old flame - and potential ones that are frustratingly staying put in the "potential" category. That's another trial all its own - one that happened just now, actually. Guess that's what prompted me to write this.

There are many other factors; too many other parts of my life - my insecurities, fears, personal demons - that also lend themselves naturally to this. I'll leave those out - this is personal enough. But hey - if people can get their fifteen minutes of fame by opening up (unbelievably) on reality television, well, I don't think it's too bad if I open up a bit here.

Basically, right now, the word is "pain." It's amazing how Elizabeth Kubler Ross' Five Stages of Grief plays out, time after time, during the grieving period. For a while I didn't buy it - I just thought that grief could basically be summed up in one word: "SHITTY." But her research is solid, and her discovery correct.

It's also amazing to me how indescribably, given my chosen word above, I have been able to describe my feelings to myself and to the few others with whom I've shared this so far. Raw, rending, Molecule-shifting-changing-jumbled around-so-as-to-render-you-a-Pod Person-Version-of-yourself...wait. I just did describe it. Whaddya know? But the true identity of my melancholy has remained an enigma. I keep trying to figure out exactly what to call it because...I don't know why. Perhaps then I think that I'll be able to exorcise it effectively?

I can't believe why and how I torture myself sometimes. But mostly, the remnants, the glimpses of memory, the quick flashbacks are my tormentors. Sadness will catch me when I least expect it, and altogether too often. It's interesting how little "reminders" will pop up - his name you see somewhere, a song that comes on that you used to know together...it makes you wonder, well, just what's going on.

Here's the thing, though: I know this will end. I've been through enough to know that. This miasma, this Pig Pen-gray-ever-present cloud of yuckiness will dissolve. This is a normal process that has played out time after time throughout history. Sometimes it's ended in a duel; other times in a death due to jealousy; still other times in death by suicide. I am in danger of none of those. In that I am very fortunate, no? :-) Knowing this does not ease the pain; but it does make it easier to endure. If you hang on long enough, pretty soon the blackness leaves you; the Saran Wrap-like murky, clingy material that suffocates you and then becomes a part of you suddenly sheds itself. I'm waiting for that moment, that day: My Arrival.

What also helps light my way through the tunnel is a part of my faith. The Catholic faith teaches us that we can offer up our sufferings not only to atone for the sin of the world but for the betterment of others who are suffering also. I do offer my pain up for the former but focus more on the latter benefit; I try not to concern myself too much with the failings of others - Lord knows I've enough of my own to atone for. Being able to offer up my sufferings in the hope of helping others gives me great strength through trials: what better way to defeat suffering than to grab it by its claws, whip it around, kicking and screaming, and throw it up with a mighty effort to God to be turned into gold nuggets that will be deposited in the "Help ____ Fund" coffer?

The most difficult aspect of this isn't even the endurance of the hurt, bad as it is. It's the wondering, the "Why?," the "Why Not?:" The trust. Trust. I have fought with God long and hard on this subject; I've said things to Him that would make the cheeks of statues in my church flame with embarrassment; the eyes of people depicted in the Stations of the Cross to look at each other in shock and horror. Frankly, I've tired of it. I give up; give in. Okay, God, here I am. I'll take the leap - You've promised me that You'd catch me, and You'd better deliver. ;-) Dare I say it, I'm trusting in You. You know what I want. You know that I want for me to be what You want for me, as well. In other words, I want to call the shots. But here You go; here is what I can give You. I'm doing my best to love You and not fight with You. (I can just see God saying, "Don't worry about it, Tina - you'll take it back soon enough." :-) ) Perhaps God is merely waiting for me to just do it - like the fabled Isaac who was ready to kill his son at the behest of God, He's simply waiting to see if I'll turn the reins over to him. Sometimes I think of taking the "leap" into trust as a Key: the Key to unlocking the good of what could be of my life. The Key that can only be turned by my willingness.

I suppose that this note leaves the sensical realm at points - I'm getting this down in one fell swoop. But it's honest, which is what I was shooting for - what is necessary for my healing.

"Love when you can; cry when you have to/Be who you must; that's a part of the plan./Await your arrival with simple survival/ And one day, we'll all understand" goes a favorite song of mine by former singer Dan Fogelberg. Awaiting my arrival with simple survival is my current modus operandi. And one day, preferably sooner than later, there's a good chance that I will, indeed, understand.