The After-Middle.

It’s no surprise that I’m an anxious adult because anyone who knows me well knows that I started out as an anxious kid. Not the kind of anxiety that stopped me from doing things or participating in life. Not debilitating anxiety. Just the kind of anxiety that led to tears and reservation, hand wringing and pauses.

I’ve picked up different strategies over my forty-four years on this planet to contend with my anxiety. Some coping mechanisms came straight from therapists I saw and other nuggets of wisdom were contained in the sage advice bestowed upon me by loved ones.

My maternal grandfather, Fred Heller, would often say to me: “what’s the worst that can happen?” And my response to him was typically a shrug. Conveyed in that shrug was the weight of one thousand pounds. ANYTHING could happen. But he wanted me to explore worst case scenarios to fundamentally understand that I could stomach even the most catastrophic situation. No matter how bad, I would figure it out.

And he was right in the most general sense. I am a survivor. Despite my delicacy, my empathic tendencies, my grandiose sensitivities, I am an emotional warrior at the end of the day. I weather storms. I persevere. I find my center, eventually.

I think that’s the narrative we cling to, mostly. Our society tends to talk about the way in which we stumble through the dark to find sunshine. We talk about the before, some of the middle, and the after. The in between bits are described as challenging, and we will explore all the reasons why, but then, there’s the later part, and the work just becomes a means to an end.

Except that no one really describes the after-middle. No one describes the part where you’ve survived and you are okay except that you aren’t, because you carry the grief and scars of that thing that took you to your knees. No one really talks about the ways in which you have to wrestle with the healing process, not to heal, but to rail against the side effects that you’d rather not experience.

I lost my aunt a few days ago. It feels like ten minutes and also, ten years. I feel absolutely gutted. I think some part of me believed that if I wrote this brilliant tribute to her, I could prolong her life, save her. I don’t know if I realized what I was doing until I sat down to write this and was overwhelmed with feelings of disappointment and failure. The arrogance of believing my manifestation was powerful enough to turn the tide. And still, my heart was hopeful. If I wrote about her, she wouldn’t leave me, leave  us.

But she did, and shit, it broke me in two. I’ve already shared that she was one of my inner circle, not because of our shared DNA, but because of who she was as a woman, a human. Delicious, generous, kind, silly, and loving. Bright, funny, and utterly charming. I lie in bed, in the dark, and scroll through our text messages, an emotional detective mining for signs of departure. They aren’t there though, not really. It’s just love, connection, and the kind of familiarity that does not just grow with time.

So, I’m devastated. Gutted.

I know I’ll keep on keeping on, because- life, but oh, the agony.

But it’s not the right now. The right now bits are expected. The shocking pain, the intense sadness, the bouts of confusion and anger.

It’s everything else that we don’t talk about. The fear of forgetting. The firsts of everything that makes sense (holidays, birthdays) and the firsts that you don’t even think about because you didn’t know they would ever happen to you or because you didn’t realize the impact they’d have. A taste, a smell, a laugh. The way in which we have to witness others who we love, grieve. That moment where you go to call them because you just didn’t remember for one second that they aren’t around anymore. The joy and relief that someone else has been saved, has recovered, but the crushing realization that immediately follows.

Talking often brings comfort during these early days. Sharing memories and stories. And then, there’s that stretch when you stop talking, and this feels natural and yet, it’s so scary. If we don’t talk anymore, how will we keep them present and front of mind?

And even with a beautiful relationship, one with open exchanges and free feelings and all the honesty in the world, there are the pangs of regret. I should have said more, done more, been more. I wish I had more moments, more time, more of everything.

The powerlessness is so fucking debilitating, so paralyzing. You’re just going about your day and BAM, the thought of something and the cycle is so pervasive that there’s no shaking it loose.

I’m afraid to feel this level of grief but in some ways, the after is what scares me more.

My cousin, Ellen’s son, started a shared photo album where several of us could share photos of my aunt. Yesterday someone posted photos with Harriet, my beloved grandmother, and Ellen, in them. I wasn’t prepared for how that would make me feel. And sure, we talk endlessly about them hanging out in another place together and I want nothing more than to believe that, but also, wow, that hurts.

Contemplating not just the loss, but the passage of time. The way that the days and weeks and months and years start to blur lines. Where you have to think harder to remember a voice, a nickname, the details of that one particular story you’re dying to share.

It’s just absolutely heart-wrenching. And there’s nothing that eases it. To the contrary, it gets worse with time, because of the tragic and real inverse relationship. The most time passes, the fuzzier the picture. And so, I commit to my heart all the things I want to cling to. I cycle them through my brain over and over again.

I guess what I’m trying to say is don’t let anyone tell you this stuff gets easier. It doesn’t. It gets harder. But, it’s all part of being human. And hopefully the good stuff outweighs the pain. And either way, we go on.

Either way…we go on.

X

L.