Turning

Lay me down
Let the only sound
Be the overflow
Pockets full of stones

“What the Water Gave Us” – Florence and the Machine

Photo: Noel C. Hankamer

I am both the bolt and the wrench.

Every morning when I wake I spend the first minutes of consciousness turning, turning, turning. Turning my mind—my rational self—on. Turning my heart—my emotional side—off. Turning my body out of the comfort of unconsciousness and sleep. In my mind’s eye I see a giant silver wrench placed on a bolt and the steady pressure applied and the twisting to the right. Once twisted I can get up and function. I am braced against the normalcy of everyday and the schedule of tasks to be accomplished.

I am cold, like metal. That, too.

With visualization I can get up, dressed, caffeinated. With visualization I can go to work, plod through email, and answer questions. With visualization I can remind myself to smile and greet others, so that I do not alarm co-workers or students or those I run into at the grocery store.

A long-time friend recently wrote me an email—asking for a check-in. How am I doing? I didn’t respond, yet. How does one respond with the news that I am not doing all that well at all? How does that conversation go?

Do I lead with the prolonged battle we’re having with Ant’s school? Or the fact that a third-grade classmate of his died unexpectedly last weekend—collapsing while playing outside? Do I tell them that my child is now in grief-counseling, and that in every session he draws pictures of J’s grandmother, who passed away on Thanksgiving? Do I say that I have nightmares of tornadoes again, now that severe storms have once again ravaged the region of my childhood? Do I tell how Ant cries out when it hails during the thunderstorms in the night and jumps into my bed without a word and buries his head in my chest? Do I tell how K tries awkwardly to comfort me when I cry in the car—why waves of grief in the car?-- at the loss of someone from my childhood—who took her own life this week, and the subsequent pain it has caused my friends who were so very close to her? Or perhaps that I’ve had two grandparents in the hospital again this past month? Or that J’s great-aunt died?

Do I tell how—ever vigilant for depression and depressive episodes—I was surprised at how different grief can be? How I did not expect the panic attacks? How I close the office door at work when my chest tightens and my heart pounds, so that I can close my eyes and breathe? Where do I start?

How do any of us say, “I’ve had too much. I cannot take any more.” Especially when these are not things happening directly to you… when chaos and death are only swirling around you? How do you explain the effects of watching destructive forces winding their way through the lives of those who you love and adore?

So I will say this: I feel as if I am currently in some sordid game of “I’m not touching you! I’m not touching you!” with the cosmos. And I will leave it at that. And I will keep turning, turning, turning—because it is the only thing I know to do at this point.