September 10, 2013

30x30x30: Reminders

I was looking at my site stats this morning, and saw that someone had been to an old post, Cracked Veneer. I recognized the title, but couldn’t recall what it was about, so I clicked. There are always old posts listed in the stats that people have happened upon, and I never take particular notice or click, so I don’t know why I noticed or clicked today. You can read the post for yourself if you like, but the synopsis is that I had a complete blubbering meltdown at the FedEx office because I needed a witness to sign a form related to resolving my father’s estate after he committed suicide in 2010.

He’s been on my mind lately because in a couple of weeks, I’m tentatively planning to drive to Texas to finally clear out the storage unit where the last of his belongings have been locked up for the last 3 1/2 years. Over the course of three car trips I made during the year after his death, I managed to bring back all the smaller stuff that had been packed in boxes. The furniture is all that remains. There isn’t much – his bedroom set, and my great-grandmother’s antique dining room set. It’s the stuff I kept for its high sentimental value. For the last three years, we’ve delayed and debated whether to hire movers or do it ourselves, but we finally settled on using movers. I need to go down there, coordinate that, and close out the storage unit account.

After already having a lot of mixed, complicated feelings about this whole moving thing, completing this last phase of settling all the practical issues related to his death, and the somewhat disorienting prospect of having his furniture in my house, I lost it when I read that old post this morning. It all feels raw. Really raw. Like the veneer is cracking again.

This evening, I saw someone posted that today is World Suicide Prevention Day. I knew that, but had forgotten – the way you know it’s a birthday or anniversary, but you forget until someone is like, hey, today is blah-blah day. Then you’re like, oh, right, I totally knew that, but it didn’t occur to me. Perhaps my subconscious sent me clicking to that old blog post this morning to remind my conscious mind of something it didn’t want to recognize.

I have a million swirling, knotted thoughts, but I don’t really have words to put all this together anymore than what I’ve shared here. Thankfully, 30x30x30 compelled me to make art, and although my trip to Texas will linger into October, most of it will be in September, so 30x30x30 will accompany me for most of the way. I’m a little concerned about getting art done on my driving days – two 12-hour days behind the wheel, each way – but based on how I felt today, I think I’m going to need this.

 

Who told you that one paints with colors? One makes use of colors, but one paints with emotions.
~Jean-Baptiste-Simeon Chardin

 

Day 10 - 30x30x30 - Everywhere

Day 10 – 30x30x30 – Everywhere

 

Day 10 - 30x30x30 - Spilled

Day 10 – 30x30x30 – Spilled

 

2013 World Suicide Prevention Day

2013 World Suicide Prevention Day

December 18, 2012

Talking to No One

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February 1, 2012

Mirror, Mirror

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December 1, 2010

My Year in One Word, Next Year in Another

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September 28, 2010

Nursing Wounds

I’m lame because I never posted anything about the BlogHer conference other than the vagina post, but in case you didn’t know, Karen and I were roomies. I adore Karen, and if there’s ever another opportunity to be roomies with her again, I’d jump at the chance because she’s just awesome, and getting to spend lots of time with her made the difference between a good trip and an uber-fabulous trip. Three days and three nights of hanging with Karen meant lots of good discussions about everything from missing our respective hubbies and critters, to the magic of Target, to more serious topics. Amongst all the conversation, I talked to her about my father’s suicide and all the related fall-out. Actually, I think I more accurately talked at her.

I don’t ever really talk about it, so there was rambling word vomit aplenty on my part, and friend that she is, she was a very good listener. One of the things that has preoccupied me all these months, and one of the concerns I expressed to her was whether or not to write about it here, and if so, how to do that. I’m struggling with this now as much as ever because I haven’t found a solution that feels right.

I know there are plenty of people who would graciously listen to me if I wanted to talk about it, but I typically don’t because I feel like such an ominous abyss of doom and gloom when I do. I know there are some people who will graciously read if I write about it here, but given the choice, I think most people would just assume not read about it. I joined an online forum for survivors of suicide, but I’m feeling very ambivalent about it now. The members of the forum are all survivors, so it seemed like a good idea, but now that I’ve tried reading some of it, I find it too depressing. I know how dumb it sounds for me to say that a suicide survivor forum is depressing, as if it would be something other than that, but I guess I didn’t really give much thought to what to expect. I had looked into a local support group, but haven’t been, and feel even less inclined to go now that I’ve tried the online forum. Having not warmed up to any of those options, I feel like the other obvious options are: (a) wait because time heals all wounds, or (b) find a therapist.

Right after I returned from Texas following the funeral, I went to see a therapist. I’m a therapist so I believe in therapy, and I know people go to see therapists to deal with these kinds of issues, so it seemed like a logical thing to do. I purposefully sought one who specialized in grief counseling because that too seemed logical. I talked her ear off, telling her all the details about my relationship with him, or lack thereof, and the circumstances of his death. I’m sure the visit had some value, because I got to tell someone the story in its entirety, but I didn’t care for her. Since this was last January or February, I don’t remember what exactly I didn’t like about her, but mostly I hated that her office was yellow and decorated with a thousand different birdhouses.

Birdhouses aside though, I knew I was trying too hard to tidy up an inherently messy situation. Talking to a therapist to resolve my feelings when I was only beginning to deal with the estate issues wouldn’t have been terribly productive. I knew I wouldn’t achieve any sense of closure as long as I was knee-deep in papers that needed to be notarized, death certificates that had to be faxed, a house to sell, and a mountain of belongings to sort. I decided it was too soon, and not terribly practical to begin a course of therapy, so I put the idea on hold.

My other reservation about starting therapy is that I’ve spent so much of my life in therapy already. My years in therapy truly helped me heal a lot of painful hurts, but prior to my father’s death, I felt like I was finished being a therapy client. A lot of the time I spent in therapy was trying to resolve issues related to my father, our perennial disconnection, and his persistent disinterest in me. A few years ago, I came to accept that he wasn’t willing to invest the effort, and I decided that being responsible for facilitating that relationship was no longer a job I wanted. So I quit, and hoped the day would come when he’d have a revelation that he wanted to be a part of my life.

It was hardly a solution, I know. Instead, it was a holding pattern that was more tolerable than trying to figure out who he wanted me to be so I could try to become that person so that he’d want to know me, which is what I’d been doing since I was a little girl. When I was about 30-years old, I had an epiphany that I was never going to be that person, so it was a matter of him accepting me for who I had become. The wounds of a relationship that had been in disrepair for so long were there, but freeing myself from the obligation to fix it allowed them to heal as much as I thought they could given the circumstances. His death has reopened those wounds though, and suicide has been the metaphorical salt.

I’ve tried to limit my posts about it, but on occasions such as this, I feel like I’m displaying the wounds in all their raw, ugly ooziness, and I can’t imagine anyone wanting to be witness to this, anymore than I was able to read the posts on the suicide survivor forum. They’re the kind of wounds that need air though, and I think hiding them under bandages all the time isn’t good for them. Waving oozy wounds around haphazardly isn’t a good idea either though. When, where, to whom do I let them get some circulation to encourage healing? I don’t know the answers. I’m too ambivalent about therapy at this point to commit to it, so for the moment, here I am because I don’t have a better place.

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