Some of my writing reflecting on the words of May Sarton from #writeingrief Day 11
I was determined to make space, inner space for a poem.Loss made everything sharp.
I suffer from these brief weekends, the tearing up of the roots of love, and from my own inability to behave better under the stress. The poem is about silence, that it is really only there that lovers can know what they know, and there what they know is deep, nourishing, nourishing to the palms of the hands and the soles of the feet.
For a little while, it is as if my nakedness were clothed in love.But then, when I come back, I shiver in my isolation, and must face again,and try to tame the loneliness.
~May Sarton, from Journal of a Solitude.
I’m not sure where to start with this one because there is so much here. I’m almost overwhelmed by how much is here. Of course this is coming from a place of feeling overwhelmed with life and the joy around every fucking corner. I can’t seem to write to these prompts this week without eff bombing everything. It’s funny (not at all). I know that some people who previously read my blog quit because I swear too much in my posts. When I found this out, it hurt like crazy. I just thought that everyone who loves me would get it. Would get why I need--and have every right--to swear my fucking face off. I mean I think I have that right, don’t I? And when I start questioning things like this, I question whether this entire monster is even real. I question whether I should be in this much pain over merely losing my babies. And then I get really fucking pissed off that I’ve been led down this path. And why do I even care what anyone else thinks? I don’t care if everyone thinks I’m fucking going to fucking hell because I am angry that my babies died. I mean I’m pretty sure that God gets that it’s fucking infuriating for a mere human to lose a baby. And again. And how much can we take? And how much do we have to take? And when does it stop? And fucking WHY (not that that matters)?
I realize that I haven’t even addressed the prompt at this time. I guess I had something else to say today. Perhaps that was my way of making space for other writing. Here goes…
“Loss made everything sharp”Yes. Hell yes. The good stuff and the bad stuff and the boring stuff. It’s all sharp. All of it can slice through me without warning.
“my own inability to behave better under stress”Ok. My rant above is probably a good example of this. My twitchy face that I try to poke and press up against the cool wall to see if I can get it to stop is--maybe--an example of this.
“For a little while, it is as if my nakedness were clothed in love”For a little while. Yes. A reprieve where I can hold on to the only thing that really matters. Just the love that I have for my family--all of them. Can I really break it down to that one detail? Just love? Sure I can. For a little while at least.
“But then, when I come back, I shiver in my isolation, and must face again and try to tame the loneliness.”This is true. It always comes back to this empty, lonely place. This takes me back to waking up on the gurney and turning to the nurse, “I’m not pregnant anymore, am I?” And still almost a year later, I feel the weight of that emptiness over and over. It’s not that I’m in the same place as the early days where I would literally wake up and have to remind myself and my body that I was empty, but it still hits me full force and knocks me back: Empty again and again and again.