What I really need is a Randy Newman or a Tom Waite song, one of those dips into the core of truth, a raspy look into the ‘little bitty eyes’ of our lesser selves. I need anger, shouted gut spilling anger. Not gangsta rap anger but polite Catholic school girl anger gone rage. Randy Newman or Tom Waite would know the words. They would not be hampered by my ‘stuff’, my fear of anger.
This is grief, raw sadness. Anger has been slower to come than have the other so-called stages of grief. None of the anger is the expected kind. This does not feel like anger at Bob for dying or for leaving so many stones, boulders, for me to turn.
It has been five months of processing and my expectation clung to the conventional wisdom that six months held some elixir of passage. Every day is wrapped in death in some form or another and 30 additional days make conventional wisdom sound like a fool’s errand.
Each of my adult children has done everything in his/her power to ease this passage. When the anger threatens, I keep it at bay by concentrating on them. Their love and concern is constant and given to the degree that is possible for them. If you read this blog on an intermittent basis, you have read of the generosity of specific friends and neighbors.
It has been a conscious goal to avoid living widow-like, lamenting, hiding or doing the dance of sighs. My sons and my daughters-in-law have encouraged every effort to be alive, to set goals, to find joy. They have done everything possible.
That should be enough, right? Many people never come close to that degree of support. So why the anger? Why the New York minute need to spill what I will end up swallowing again rather than having the courage to vent?
Anger won’t heal. Anger will just tear the scabs and open new wounds pushing six months into a lifetime. Maybe this is the best I can do now, this lame attempt at speaking out–speaking to the hurt of indifference, the hurt of the assumption that being alone isn’t wrenchingly lonely, the hurt of expecting me to be who I was before part of me disappeared, the hurt of distancing because it is awkward when searching for words.
Lord. Talk about lame. Wish I had the courage to take the plunge. Maybe that New York minute will explode later.