They are turning the machines off tomorrow, and I can not breathe. My heart aches. I wish I could be there to hold her hand. To kiss her cheek one last time. To whisper in her ear.
As it is, I called and they held the phone to her ear and I professed my love, my thankfulness of her being in my life, I told her over and over again how much she means to me. They said she nodded and teared up.
I did not cry to her because I did not want her to hear my fear. My overwhelming sense of loss. I did not want her to know how afraid I am to live the rest of my life without ever hearing her voice again. The way she sings happy birthday off key. How the palms of her hands are always warm but the tips of her fingers cold as ice. How she dotes on my, now, devastated children.
Little flashes of thought run through my mind...how her purse used to smell like old spearmint gum. How she used to hold her hands over my ears when I had bad ear infections as a child. The sound of her voice when she spoke to me whilst my head rested on her chest. How she would call me sir and my sons ma'am as a joke. How she would tease me on the paper route that my clean hands were filthy and her ink covered hands were clean. How she cried when she held my first born child. What do I do with these memories now? These bitter sweet memories that taste of tears.
Almost thirty eight years of memories and she was in almost all of them. How am I supposed to go on? What do I do? The weight in my chest is so heavy I have forgotten how to breathe. Every room I walk into is silent. Food has no taste. Sleep is elusive. I feel hollowed out.
I called again when they removed the ventilator.... I told her again how much we all loved her, how she was the best grandma a person could ever ask for, how I loved her bunches and bunches, which was her saying. Then I sang jingle bells to her. It was her favorite song. She always asked me to sing it to her, even in the middle of Summer. I hope she heard me. She was no longer responsive.
They turned off her machines today...she no longer breathes. My heart aches so fucking much. I wish I could have been there to hold her hand. To kiss her cheek one last time. To whisper in her ear.
I don't know how I will get through this but I do know that life will never be the same. I am better for having known her. Blessed for having been loved by her. I am utterly devastated. I do not know really what to say. The words escape me.
Goodbye my Grandma, my rock, my best friend. I miss you so much already. My heart is broken.
Thursday, February 2, 2017
If given the option to be willfully ignorant or willfully indigent, I choose to be willfully defiant.
I am willful. I am one intrusive thought away from becoming the hillbilly hermit, the troll underneath the bridge, or the creepy castle recluse in some antiquated children's book..... Sometimes, it takes pure will power to just live. I have to fight or this disorder will take over and I will be damned if I am going down without swinging.
Am I willful? You fucking bet I am. Willful, spiteful, ravenous. with a stubbornness that burns stoic and impertinent. I am the loudly whispering insolence that only comes with a mindful defiance that burns itself with embers so hot it has etched itself in to the recesses of my soul. A spider like web of pure pigheadedness and sheer inflexible iron-will. I will myself out of bed in the morning. I will myself to brush my teeth. I will myself to leave the house and go to my appointments. I will myself to shower, shave, to brush my hair. I will myself to cook dinner and to eat. I will myself to walk outside and feel the sun on face. I will myself to help with homework, to do laundry, to talk to strangers. I will myself to sleep after an exhausting day of doing things I did not want to do.
I am not going to be told what I can and can not do. Not by my own disorder and not by anyone else. I am not afraid to stand up for myself anymore.
I was being willful when I disagreed with was a friend who claimed that I was privileged for being only mental ill. I was being willful when I told her that I refuse to accept that something that has ruined my life should ever be called a privilege. I was being willful when I told her to go fuck herself when she continued to argue with me as if she had any idea what hell my life has been.
I earned this dysfunction with hard work. Before this dysfunction was me being unable to function at all. My life may be screwy but it is now a life because of pure stubbornness.
Yeah, I'm willful walking past those who choose to be ignorant with my gaze held forward and my head held high. I am not ashamed to be me anymore and the likes of supposed friends aren't going to change that. I accept no one in my life trying to tear me back down where I used to dwell. I will not go quietly into the night. I will scream, yell, claw, grab, and scratch my way back into the light. I am not a whisper but a sonic boom. I will not be unheard.
I want to live. I want to taste the snowflakes on my tongue. I want to feel the breeze in my hair. I want to go out of my house and be out of my house which is both exhilarating and yet terrifying all at the same time and I am doing it one day at a time... unapologetically, unabashed, unashamed, unafraid.
Because I am willful, therefore I am strong.
This is my life and I will carve it out as best I can with whatever shitty tools I find along the road. I will claw at it with my bare hands if need be. I will tear out chunks with frozen fingers and broken skin. I will carve out my life regardless of pain, discomfort, or complication. That could be the "crazy" in me, or my red hair talking, or just that I am very much my grandmother's granddaughter in that way. I am busy carving my life out, with lopsided shovels, broken down spades, plastic forks, and tarnished silver spoons.
Yes, I am willful....and there is dirt under my fingernails again.