The other day I found myself literally having two textual conversations at once. One being with my date for Friday night (gah!-say whaaa??) and the other being with my sister about the kid who sat in front of us every Sunday 15 years ago. I remember seeing frustration with his disobedience all over his mother's face. But from what I hear, Josh Blum turned out to be a pretty good kid. He died Monday as he was helping a friend move. His truck was pulling a trailer southbound when it blew a tire on the Interstate and it rolled into the northbound lanes. He was "partially ejected" from the truck because he wasn't wearing a seatbelt like the kid next to him.
I met a wonderful person on Sunday evening who lovingly convinced me to call my mom and tell her about an important event coming up in my life. I had been scared to because I know it's an event she can't be a part of due to choices she's made. I called my mom on Sunday, telling her to call me back any night this week; I really wanted to talk to her. She called Wednesday and the date I have Friday actually made it really easy to transition from light conversation to heavier stuff.
I anxiously told her the news and her response was, "You know I can't go...with you, right?"
"I know, but I didn't know if maybe you wanted to come out here for it anyway." She said she'd try to get that Saturday off.
"I know, but I didn't know if maybe you wanted to come out here for it anyway." She said she'd try to get that Saturday off.
About two hours later, it occured to me she hadn't even sounded apologetic about not being able to go; she didn't even sound like she wanted to be there with me. And I'd have to wait three more hours to really even get out a good cry about it.
As I began that cry, I thought about what my roommate might say when she saw my face in the doorway. And I thought about how we're kind of on opposite sides of this fence. I can understand her viewpoint and she can understand mine, but neither of us are interested in crossing over. For the first time in months, I no longer felt like going home.
I wanted to talk to someone face-to-face who could understand what I was feeling. There was only one other person I could think of who could do that. And maybe if I hadn't loosed my venom on him earlier in the week, I would have been okayer at least calling as late as it was.
But the feeling I had ostracized him made me feel even worse about myself and the situation.
I just wanted to drive fast. But the highest posted speed limit within 3 miles was 45 mph, and that just would not be fast enough. I decided to go the distance to the interstate. As I approached the last stoplight I intended to see for a while, I got the urge to just lay on the horn; I didn't have the voice, breath or energy to scream, so I would ask my car to act as proxy.
But where could I go? (The good news is coming, I promise. Just hang in there.) I was surrounded by Suburbia, which is not an appropriate place to make noise at 10:30 at night.
Then I remembered Werner Park. No one would be there, and it was somehow both close and remote. It felt like a cold lemonade on a hot day as I drove behind the field and into the parking maze to vent my frustration. The anticipation of the release had cooled me down and I found I didn't need to honk as much as I thought I did. I was so pleased with my new-found cathartic, all-weather release I didn't need to shed any more tears in the car.
But you can bet I bawled when I got home from the ballpark.
Soaking-the-sheets sobbing, too. My roommate was up when I got home (but thankfully in her room, so it was easy to sneak in without her seeing me; I still didn't want to explain whatever my face looked like) so I couldn't wail like I wanted to.
I thought of someone else I could call; another friend I knew would be glad to stay with me until my soul was soothed. But I didn't want her to come to where I was. And going to where she was meant going to her model home, where sorrows of this manner and magnitude simply are not known. Not firsthand, anyway.
I tried again, even searching my hoardalicious phone list for someone who had seen a loved one reject fulness after accepting it and who I had told about my SAD. The first one I found, I wasn't confident enough about knowing details and didn't want to give her one more thing to worry about. The second one I found did not respond well to my SAD. I had found a few who had loved ones not accepting the truth, but that's a different feeling from rejecting it after accepting it. (I know; I've seen both firsthand.)
I kept coming back to that one. The one I wasn't sure had forgiven me for my mistakes and mistreatment. (I hate when I have to keep telling myself I can only focus on one sorrow at a time.)
I was lonely and alone, facing what might very well be the greatest disappointment one can face.
Had there been anyone else who had felt like that?
Alma.
I couldn't talk to him face-to-face, but I could seek out his perspective on things.
When he lost Abinadi, he was lonely in that he had no one left to connect with. Just like me.
He had raised his son, alma, in the light of the truth. Alma watched as alma actively denied the truth. What heartbreak he rendered. Seeing him come out of it (and how he did it) helped me know I could (and eventually would), too. Maybe not tit-for-tat, but I'd get out of it.
Appeased, I took 2 aspirin. One for my crying headache and one to help me sleep. Even though I woke up looking 40 years older with suitcases under my eyes, I still think I found a way to lessen that never-sought-after Post-Cry look. (A cool, damp washcloth kept in place with an eye mask.)
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