The Doom in Song

I applied for a job back home tonight. It’s part time with health insurance and pays me what I was nearly making when I left. I could live on it. I would have the energy to create the life I want to live and have my bottom line covered.

It is with this pot simmering on the back burner that I revisited one of my favorite pieces of music tonight. The Philip Glass compilation, Solo Piano, was my constant companion while I was suffering from acute stress disorder.  The repetitive simpleness was soothing to my brain for reasons unknown to me. It’s serious and grand. The huge claps of doom in the minor notes mixed with a gorgeous complexity that captured the crux of my emotional tornado. I listened to nothing but that for months.  The last time I felt the urge to play it, I didn’t progress past Metamorphosis One as the darkness and wonder of those times was too much for me to sit with. That was not the case tonight. I made it all the way through, viewing my emotions from a safe distance. It was not enjoyable, but it did not elicit such a strong reaction that I had to turn it off. I could describe how I felt and what drew me to it so intensely. I was testing my emotional distance.

One of my favorite people from my current job said to me on her way out the door, “You need to find a way to be okay.”  I have been barely functioning for a long time, I know. I have not been okay in years. I was simply not allowed to grieve my losses and that’s the biggest reason that I am not okay.

As I have done my best minister to the bereaved grief of my two friends, my resentment has blossomed. One expresses her grief in a performative manner and I have little tolerance left for her written hysterics that are smeared all over Facebook each day.  I can’t even leave her a little heart emoji anymore, which signifies I read her post. She was dismissive of me; we lived less than ten miles apart and she made no effort to visit me for the two years between my diagnosis and my moving. She was mad when I called Melinda (BFF, deceased husband) to take me to Trader Joe’s when I was still taking narcotic painkillers and unable to drive. And Melinda herself was always telling me to think positive. She was the person I called after I talked to Dr. Overinvolved and it was “think positive, you’re fine, it’s going to be okay.” I do not go near the family because that well is dry, dry, dry. There’s no empathy there, let alone understanding.

This morning when I was trying to workout in a gym that I really do not like, I kept thinking about how I need me again, and did I leave me behind somewhere, maybe…back home? I know that if the circumstances arise and I am hired for this role, I will certainly see it all through very different eyes; I have grown here in so many ways, but I hope me is somewhere, on a trail in Balboa Park or on the dragon-shaped running path at the Lake. Perhaps me is out in the east county mountains I have never explored. I need to find the place where my life, my journey does not feel like it has been in vain, the place where I can be okay again.

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