letters to grief on sleepless nights

alt title: i think i’ll be okay

“because everyone just wants to exist in a well-lot space and to not heal alone, well me too.”

— Yellow: 6ft Under the Sun, ZenChristian Mott, Published in Cordella Magazine

i didn’t have it in me to record a podcast today, mostly because i woke up at 3:30 this morning, as the following poem shares.

grief comes in waves, it isn’t linear, though sometimes i wish it was. or maybe i don’t, i don’t know. maybe i’m just saying that because i think that if it was linear, i would hurt less right now.

i stayed in bed as long as i could before i sighed and accepted that i wouldn’t be falling back asleep. i shuffled to the sofa, made a cup of chamomile tea, then journaled about feeling shitty, then opened cordella magazine and started reading.

i finished my tea, and damn it, the chamomile didn’t fix me, how dare it, and i opened my notes all and started typing.

this is what came out.

tw for the messiness of grief and death, plus the heaviness of alcoholism and parental abuse. the abuse isn’t described, but anyone who has survived it will know it’s essence. if you have, it might be a comforting read, it might be a painful read, or like most things, it might be a messy mix of the two, plus a few other things you didn’t expect. read with love for yourself, or don’t read, also with love for yourself.

collage made on pinterest

i’m awake again at 3:30am,

and i thought this wouldn’t happen anymore,

and i thought i wouldn’t have to see her again,

and i thought i wouldn’t have to sit on the couch,

alone and awake as the world sleeps around me,

as i cry and i wonder if my mom is in the room,

because what’s better, and what’s worse? that she’s here or that she’s not?

what if both are bad?

i wish spring could just feel like a gift,

just like i wished that of the holidays,

of her birthday,

of my birthday,

of the way the fall leaves changed,

or the way the summer solistice gave me more light to see my tears with.

the lamp turned on by itself tonight,

my eyes opening to see my spouse’s eyes opening,

four brows furrowed,

four eyes squinting open.

he turned it off,

and fell asleep,

but my heart started pounding,

having been awoken coincidentally from a dream about her,

and i started thinking, and i started wondering,

and i started worrying, and i started hoping,

and i started fearing

that what if it had been her?

and was it actually a coincidence,

if i dream of her most nights?

sometimes she is a passerby, a face in the distance, sometimes just a memory, sometimes a nightmare,

sometimes she is confessing, or screaming, or

angry

or

apologetic

or

different,

but she’s hardly ever dead.

one time, i had a dream that she came back,

that the doctor called me and said “so funny story”

and one time, i dreamt that she

knocked on my door,

“good news” she said,

“i’m here!”

i remember the dread, the wonder why i had grieved for nothing,

knowing it would just come again anyway,

but this time starting from scratch.

and that isn’t so different from how it felt

when i had to grieve her when she was here,

just very far away,

when she was dreaming,

but never quite awake.

is there ever a good part?

when you make it 30, 60, 90 days

without a nightmare or a spell where you can’t breathe

or a sudden vision of the things you wish you had never seen,

like her ashes or her last mug of coffee that she didn’t even finish or the empty trash can because the landlord had thrown out the trash bags because he’s known you since you were six and didn’t want you to see all the wine bottles in the garbage?

will i ever get to be six months sober, free of nightmares and abstinent from the dizziness of heartache and

will people, places and things stop reminding me of my dead mother?

will they stop reminding me of the experience of having an alive mother?

will i ever stop introducing myself as hi, i’m samantha, and i’m grieving?

hi, i’m samantha and i’m still grieving?

hi, i’m samantha and i don’t think i was ever not grieving?

will i ever stop being the girl woman (?) that is known for her sunshine smile and also river bed eyes

who, when you ask how she is, she says good, which is code for okay,

but then you ask how she is really, she says okay,

which is code for bad,

and if you ask her why, she shrugs, which is code for hiding,

and she says eh, you know,

which is code for my dead mom stuff is bumming me out,

and you say, i’m sorry,

and do you need anything,

she’ll smile in a way that kind of reminds you of a clown smiling, but you’re not sure why, but you decide not to question it,

and she says, no, i’m fine!

which is code for, i’m definitely not fine, but i feel weird about not being fine, so can we please change the subject?

will i ever stop seeing my mother in the wine aisle of grocery stores

or lines at the mvd

and will i ever see an older woman who looks like she’s having some feelings about life and i don’t know what they are but they don’t seem good

and not want to tell her that i’m sorry?

will i ever not look at myself in the mirror

and see the ways in which i look like my mother

and want to break the mirror

because i don’t think i can handle that?

will i ever look at my body and not think

of the comments she made about it,

or

will i ever smell a glass of wine and not want to throw up, or say

hey, you killed my mom?

will i ever feel better?

yes, because until this weekend, i felt better for a couple weeks,

and yes, because i can think of the ways i giggled and smiled and laughed and loved and was held and held others

and yes, because i can think of the way i smiled when i bought a bouquet of tulips from trader joe’s and the way i felt lit up when the cashier asked who they were for and i said me and she said that’s nice even though i know they have to say that

and yes, because i can think of the way i sat in the car with my best friend last weekend and we laughed and cried when we said how much we loved each other because it didn’t seem possible for our hearts to feel so full and for it to not hurt at all

and yes, because i can think of the way the bath bomb my spouse got me as a surprise turned the water dark purple, and i splashed around happily like a little girl woman in my colored water then worried that i stained the tub purple and i kind of did but the stain came out with dish soap

and yes, because i can think of the ways that i never thought i would get through this or that and i always did

and i always laughed again

and i always danced again

and i always hoped again

and i might feel this way for the rest of my life,

the chaotic carnival ride that whips you around and makes you wonder, they definitely put this together right, right, and then you think of the news stories you have read where they definitely didn’t, and then you say eh, i’m sure it’s fine,

because what else can you do,

and i think that’s okay,

because it means that i’m living.