Presence
it's a gift...
Last night, Gregg and I drove to the “Ozark highlands” which is a fancy way to say, “way out in the middle of absolutely nowhere” and we stayed the night in a tiny cabin. We’d done this a year and a half or so ago, and we loved it. There’s something particularly lovely about two people holed away in a tiny little cabin in the woods. No wi-fi. No television. Just us, some music, and a good book. It’s one of my very favorite getaways, and last night was even better because there was a pretty great thunderstorm when we were there, and the entire back of the cabin is one huge window. We had the shade pulled open for at least part of the night watching the lightening, and eventually put it back up around 5am when it wasn’t clear if we were going to need to build an ark in order to get home.
Today when I finally got out of bed and made a coffee, I was telling Gregg that more than once I’d imagined this trip as if I was living in my old life. The life in which I would have packed at least a bottle of wine, but more likely two, and I would have proceeded to drink them mostly on my own, convincing myself that the wine was relaxing me. Then, I would have passed out eventually and slept like shit. I would have missed the awesome storm, and I would have awakened feeling hungover and shitty.
None of that stuff happened, and for that I am beyond grateful. I woke up this morning feeling lucky to be wrapped up in a cozy bed with my favorite person, listening to the rain: thankful that I was present for all of it. I’ve been thinking about this today, and about the idea of being present. For sure, being present is the best part of sobriety for me. I was only about halfway there for most of the last twenty or so years, if I’m being honest. Physically, I was always on time and ready to go. The kids were dressed, lunches packed, appointments made and kept, long hours worked, lists checked, you name it. On the outside I looked put together. On the inside, I was almost always elsewhere. Trying to disconnect. Trying to numb. Trying to not feel things. Today, I feel all the things.
The last few weeks have been less rushed for me at work. Many of my schools had spring breaks in March, and one full week was taken up with an organizational interview process. I spent less time in schools this month, and more time working from home. I like having the freedom to do those things, but for the last few weeks I have felt like my motivation is fading. I haven’t been walking, which is rare for me, and I know is probably the main source of some of this. I’ve wanted to crawl into bed earlier and earlier each day, and I’ve been trying really hard not to “should” myself into things that aren’t immediately pressing , which doesn’t come naturally. You see, as someone who always had to have things together on the outside so that no one would see how fucked up my insides were, I was used to keeping busy, because slowing down meant feeling my feelings.
In addition to losing my mom in August, this month I also lost two very dear people in my life: my dad’s sister, my Aunt Barbara, and our dear friend Jon Dee Graham. So, in the last weeks when I began to feel numb and a little helpless, I started to worry that I was falling back into a pattern that I do not like or want. I know I need to push myself into getting outside more often, and to be more present, but I also just learned about something called compounded grief, and I think maybe I have a touch of that. Actually, I think maybe I’ve had compounded grief for like a decade. Maybe we all have - at least for the last 6 years or so.
Experts call compounded grief, “grief overload” and say that it may prolong the grieving period. None of this is surprising to me, but just worth noting. “Individuals may experience conflicting emotions or difficulty in expressing their grief, leading to a sense of disorientation or emotional numbness…” Experts also say to honor those we are grieving, and to talk about loss. Which, I guess is what I’m doing here.
I’ve wandered from my point, which is that being present is a beautiful thing. I do not ever regret what it took for me to become fully present in my life, but it can also be really HARD. Without a vice, things can get really heavy. So, I guess this is to say if you’ve experienced this, you’re not alone. If you’re grieving something or someone, you’re not alone. Keep going. I’m saying this for myself as much as for anyone else.
