is there a motif to my life?

Sometimes I wonder whether God gives us a theme to our lives; a motif returning repetitively to the beat of our inevitable fates.

It occurred to me that the very first time I saw a heroin addict, I was about 14 years old. It was my older brother, boiling it up on a spoon. Neither one of us expected to see each other. He was under a bridge in a park I never ever set foot in but happened to walk past that day. He was so embarrassed…told me that he wasn’t really doing this stuff all the time. I can’t remember much else, but this particular moment remains in my mind clear as day.

My grandfather was an alcoholic but my grandmother loved him so much she never left him for it. She talks with nothing but affection about him, but my mother feels differently. It affected her deeply. When I asked her recently who was the greatest love of her life, she mentions a man she left after several years of trying to get him to commit to sobriety. He was a life-long alcoholic.

I didn’t have this type of influence in my life. My brother was already out of the house when he fell to addiction. My father and mother, both, are down-to-earth, well-balanced intellectuals. Well, my younger brother may be bi-polar...but that's my personal opinion...after years of living with someone who had been diagnosed with the disorder.

Despite this relatively wholesome upbringing of mine, I ended up falling for someone who I lost due to alcohol (and probably heroin). I hope falling as deeply for J as I did wasn’t some sort of subconscious action, although, I guess, that would maybe put the pieces together real neatly – and that’s always nice -- in psychoanalytic terms, anyway.

Unfortunately, I didn’t fall for J when he had turned into an addict. I fell for him before that. His charismatic talk, his sense of humor, his passion, his infinite knowledge – those were all the things that hooked me. 

But, if I were a therapist, I’d be salivating over those past influences of mine, pining for a break-through.

Speaking of psychotherapy – I wonder whether my grief is excessive. I think, I am being as obsessive about him as I was when he was alive, if not more so. Maybe I am feeding my own addiction, creating an increasingly perfect illusion of him in order to indulge in my non-stop J-fix.

I think, I need a super-hero therapist to crack me.

autopsy report arrives with torrential down-pour

Yesterday, J's mother sent me a text to let me know the autopsy report had finally come in, confirming one of our many sad speculations that he lost his battle with addiction.  
I was sitting in my car when I read the message; the skies had opened and rain was coming down as if poured from buckets, mirroring the way I felt, having been brought back so close to his moment of death again. It felt as if I had just received that horrible phone call from his sister telling me that their worst fears had in fact come true and that he had died.

I broke down, sobbing uncontrollably, telling myself over and over again that it was my fault. It was my fault!
He would have never gone to that extreme had I not kicked him out that morning. I should have known better. How could I not know by now that he wasn't able to see through such empty words? How could I not know that he was going to catastrophize my anger and go into self-destructive mode? How could I NOT KNOW BY NOW that he wasn't going to be able to keep calm and re-approach when the B returns to normalcy?

A voice inside of me kept responding to my cries of guilt.
It's MY fault. It's MY FAULT!
-- No, it's not.
It's my fault! 
-- No, it's not.
It's my fault...
-- No. It is not.

When I was finally able to regain control, I drove to his mother's house to sit with her and read the report. Every part of his body was described in detail. What he was wearing, his scars, the weight and condition of all major organs, everything. Attached to the autopsy details was the toxicology report, which confirmed that he had cocaine and heroin, as well as excessive amounts of alcohol in his urine and blood.

The wording explaining the cause of death was so complicated that I decided to call the Medical Examiner to speak to her in person. The woman was incredibly patient. I asked her some questions two or three times just to clarify and double-check a particular detail. You could hear that she was truly sorry for our loss and told me how handsome he was. It's nice to meet people in a profession that aren't completely burned out and understand the importance of sensitivity in their line of work. Something I cannot claim of the staff we had to interact with when we went to identify J's body. That woman was awful. She was chatting on the phone with her friend as J's sisters and I stared at his dead body on a computer display on her desk. It was a miracle she wasn't chewing gum, filing her nails at the same time.

The medical examiner explained to me that the chronic drinking, possibly combined with drug use, had been slowly killing him and that this was probably an accidental overdose. That his body just couldn't take it anymore. She said it wasn't possible to tell whether he had been using (coke/heroin) all along or if it was just this day, but, she said, it didn't really matter, for the alcohol had done enough damage to the heart to compromise him. His heart wasn't in the state of a normal, healthy 36-yr-old. So, ultimately he died of heart failure due to probably chronic and acute alcohol and drug use. She said it was hard to diagnose precisely but that the cause of death was ultimately natural (i.e. it wasn't a violent crime) and that even if he hadn't used any hard drugs, the amount of alcohol he had in his blood and urine were poisonous (0.39 in some tissues. To illustrate the excessive level of this number, she compared it to the level one gets arrested for when driving under the influence: 0.08). She said that she sees many more deaths due to the effects of alcohol than to drugs.

And despite the fact that I now know he was already dying by continuing to drink, I feel responsible. I feel that he maybe wouldn't have reached the level that ultimately did him over hadn't it been for my last words to him that fatal day.

I wish there were an emoticon that would adequately describe the pain I feel, for my words always fall short to do so.

acceptance ... nowhere near it.

I keep finding myself in moments of complete disbelief that J is forever gone. Forever (!) – it is such an unimaginable concept. Like the word infinite … or God.

I stand outside in the hazy morning sun, right where we always used to sip our freshly brewed coffees, smoking cigarettes together. I try to imagine what we would do today if he were still alive. He would probably have a consulting gig or meeting in the city somewhere, maybe he would get on Skype with his daughter later – she is going to turn seven in just a few days.  Maybe we would argue about something, or take a walk, or sleep with each other (a term that doesn’t do the passion of our sex-life any justice).

Then I am reminded that I would probably still be at my old job, which I would have never left had it not been for J’s death. I can’t see myself going back there but I am still in this PTSD type of state and I can’t think of anything with a straight mind. The daze, forgetfulness, and exhaustion aren’t as constant as they were in the first few weeks but it still gets to me how unfocused and unmotivated I am.

When I hear his music (or a song comes on that reminds me of him), I freeze. I don’t know what to do. On the one hand, I want to hear it because I think of him and his joy over this particular song; on the other hand, the familiar tunes combined with my nostalgic memory and the sobering reality of his death then make me so sad that I am often in tears.

Every time I drive by the building within which he lost his life, I consider moving to another part of town. Every thug-looking dude walking around those streets I stare down with judgmental hatred, for it could be him who left J to die.

I find myself helpless with flailing arms. Helpless. Helpless.

Helpless.

metaphorical and literal amputations

Again and again I am reminded that it is impossible to outrun your sadness. Every remedy is temporary; like a band-aid on an injury from a car crash. 

I have no motivation to do anything. I could just sit and stare at the wall if I were left alone. Alas, I have to take care of the basics. There are children to be cared for, chauffeured around, and cleaned up after. The dishes don't do themselves, and nobody is going to do my laundry or clean my house. I stick to the bare minimum but it's discouraging to feel this way. 

It's hard to imagine I will ever feel any better. Life without J is like having lost a limb. I guess, even that, one will learn to adjust to but it must seem impossible. 

It doesn't help to tell myself that there are many more people facing the same or worse challenges. It just makes me feel guilty for not being tougher.

I miss him sooo much.

I read this analogy on grief the other day, reminding me that there is no way around grief. You have to go through the pain; it is part of the healing process. 
The author is unknown.
I moved the words around bit... [if you want the original -> Google]

Grief is the deepest wound
you've ever had.
Like a cut finger,
it goes through stages of healing.
A cut finger
is numb before it bleeds,
it bleeds before it hurts,
it hurts until it begins to heal,
it forms a scab and itches
until finally, the scab is gone
and a scar is left
where once there was a wound.


Apropos Google, amputations, and cutting fingers... when I looked up the above quote again, I stumbled over this shocking ritual: http://www.odditycentral.com/pics/tribe-practices-finger-cutting-as-a-means-of-grieving.html   ..... Talk about action instead of words. Wow. 

that noose around his neck

I've been reading old journal entries of mine to combat the extra layer of sadness that's enveloped me since his birthday a few days ago. They are letters to myself, written in the first and second year of our turbulent relationship, listing all the the reasons why I should leave him. Endlessly, throughout hundreds of pages, I document unacceptable interactions between us, arguing about how we could never work.

Going over these entries, I must say, I am shocked at what I was willing to accept from this crazy boy. My forgiveness and patience seemed limitless. J was a really troubled, angry, and struggling individual but I can honestly say that at the end, we were worlds away from those unimaginably difficult first years. At the end, he had learned to trust, to love, to give, to take on his role as a father with his own child, as well as recognize his importance with my children. He had become a man and he expressed his gratitude and love to me over and over.

Unfortunately, even though he left all his dark times behind, he had acquired something he couldn't just get rid of with simple discipline and personal enlightenment. This last connection to his dark, self-destructive, post-divorce phase was an addiction he never anticipated. An addiction that had him in his grip and didn't want to let go - despite his pleas, despite my cries, despite his otherwise wonderful growth as a person.

And ultimately, he wasn't able to free himself of that noose he had placed around his neck so many years ago. Once it's there, it seems a thing of sheer impossibility to cut yourself free. You may be able to loosen the grip of addiction but, I suppose, it will never let you go completely once you give yourself to it. :(

I never understood addiction until the day I lost the man I had come to truly love unconditionally.

In one of his last emails to me, he writes:

Hang in there, my love.  I am trying very hard to be the type of man that deserves you.  I am grateful for all of the work you've put in to this relationship.  And I will not let you leave me now.

It has been an incredibly difficult few years.  But I am committed to living by the words of the Apostle Paul when he wrote in his letter to the Corinthians:

When I was a child, I spake as a child, I understood as a child, I thought as a child: but when I became a man, I put away childish things.

I am tired of being a whiny man-child.  Yes, I will quit smoking cigarettes.  Who needs them?  I will start working out again; I miss that.  I will read more.

I love you.  And there is nothing I will not accomplish to ensure that you love me too... including going to these fucking meetings.


"I am J.W., and I am a recovering addict."  The only reason I go to these meetings is to say that aloud.  Leave me or not, I will keep going.  I need the daily reminder of what I stand to lose should I not take my sobriety seriously.  And I need the daily reminder of how great life can be when you tackle it every day sober...  I can not wait another day... certainly not two years.. to be free from this shit.
....

S., I am as fine as a guy as fucked as me can be.  And I will continue to work to become the type of man that you can see yourself living with.

We've come a _long_ way!
.....

I wish I was a better writer.  I would describe your kiss this morning in ways that would approach the poetic.  She is still with me.  I will not let her down.  I am a man.  I can do this.  And, if she does leave me, I will make her regret it.  :)

J.

coping through dance ecstasy

I was telling a friend how therapeutic I find dance in this overwhelming time of grief and desperation and she sent me this article about a European phenomenon in the 13^th and 14^th century called “Tanzwut”.  The article was in German, written by Dr. Anna Bergmann. Literally translated the term Tanzwut would mean dance (Tanz) – anger (Wut) but it would probably be better described as a sort of cathartic dance phenomenon. I suppose, dance hysteria or dance ecstasy could be a suitable translations, too. Here is the English Wikipedia article on the subject but there are quite a few differences to the German one. Either way, lots of info: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dancing_mania

The article describes, how in the after-math of extreme climate change, floods, famine, and finally the plague which killed masses of people at the beginning of the 14^th century, people’s everyday life became overshadowed by grief and desperation. Many lost their children, families, and friends – sometimes all at once. This collective fear and needing to cope with mass deaths had many facets, explains Bergmann. There were violent escalations, wars, and the search for scapegoats, leading to the pogrom of the Jews as well as the beginning of witch hunts. Historians describe the “Tanzwut” as a spontaneous reaction to the floods and the plague. A coping mechanism in order to deal with the fear and grief so many felt overwhelmed with. For days, weeks, and sometimes months these growing dance groups moved in large processions (hundreds of men, women, and children) from village to village, dancing themselves into trance, day and night without food until they collapsed. Some even died due to the extreme nature of this cathartic hysteria.

I’m wondering if such an expression of pain and suffering would even be possible in our times (or, at least, in this country). The entertainment industry, facebook, youTube, the internet in general, and our cell phones are powerful tools in keeping us distracted. Often, I’m inclined to say there it is all too much and we don’t know how to be in the moment anymore – but, in the face of grief, they are all welcome means to the reception of a thought unclaimed by the man I loved and lost.

I was crazy about him. I don’t know why; I shouldn’t have been – but I was.  So many times, during our years together, did I tell myself that I needed to figure out how to let him go and live without him, for he probably would not make it back to normalcy. And now, I get to do just that. 


Busted Heart - by Bishop Allen

when people can't take your grief anymore

This sadness is like an infinite blanket exposed to an unpredictable breeze, raising and descending as leaving me helplessly exposed to the randomness of its patterns. 

One minute I can be fine, the next I am fighting the tears or punching a wall to release the overwhelming pain and anger of this loss.

He is never coming back....ever.

My friend Gisi suddenly decided to transition out of sympathy-mode and return to her usual: "I don't understand what you see in him" - mode. 

As if I'm not allowed to grief for him anymore, for he was a flawed man anyway.

I know, she just wants me to be happy and free of this seemingly unnecessary suffering but she fails to understand that my well-being was intricately tied to his presence in my life.

In fact, at times it feels as if I am experiencing withdrawal symptoms. He was my drug, I admit.  

It's hard to grief for someone who was such a complex and difficult person. It's hard because some people on the outside didn't see the life, energy, passion, and love I received from this controversial man. They only remember the troubles I shared, and that is partially my fault. [On occasion, it was all his own performance but, point is, you don't know a relationship unless you're in it.]

Yes, he was struggling with all kinds of garbage but who am I to judge? We are who we are because of how we were made and how life has treated us. What matters is that we remain self-reflective and strive for change where we feel it's needed. J did that constantly. And he struggled more than the average person because of his challenges (bi-polar tendencies) and he wasn't always quick to realize what was bad for him (and/or the people who loved him). I don't know if he would have ever made it... but, I know, he truly tried in whichever way HE was capable of....and he came a long way.

Sometimes I feel guilty. Often, I feel guilty.

I wonder, if he would still be alive had I let him be a little bit more. I had turned to complete zero-tolerance in terms of use and maybe he needed a bit more understanding and patience still instead of the constant guilt trip. I should have let him get there by himself. I should have let him be a little. Have even more patience.

I think of his daughter often and how she will never be able to be embraced by her father again. She is six years old and she adored her Daddy. They were separated by many states but they talked via Skype regularly. Sometimes she still tries to call him. ... So do I, I have to admit. I call his cellphone just to hear his voice telling me he is currently not available.