Rebirths, of a nonreligious kind

This is not an insightful blog. It’s just where I am, today.

The past year or so has been… hard. A little over a year ago, my cousin Jeff died. Jeff was the cousin I was closest to as a child. We spent 2 weeks every summer at my grandparents’ house, and spent nearly all of it together. I watched him go through hell with his own physically and emotionally abusive immediate family, and couldn’t help him. I tried to keep him away as long as possible, running through the woods together, exploring the train tracks, or just hiding together so they couldn’t get him, or at least so he could just get a break. But at the end of the day he always had to go back to his father and brother. I could never hide him away forever, never long enough. Eventually we got older. Girls became girls and boys became boys, and we lost touch. I knew he became alcoholic, occasionally sober, usually not. I tried to reach out to him, but by that point – as a college-educated, several years sober woman – I had become too different in his eyes. He eventually put together 3 years sober, was getting it together, but then died of heart failure. He was just too late. He left behind boys the same age as my son. I have since sought out his kids’ mother, and we are actually pretty similar. We’re becoming friends, which is good. Perhaps we can tie our sons together into “cousins” of a sort. Better than nothing. But bittersweet when I think of what could’ve been as “whole” families… with my cousin back.

Next, my aunt died very suddenly. Frankly, I never got along with her. In fact, I often used her as an example of someone I did not want to be like. This feels cold to me, now, and cruel. When she died, I chose not to go to the funeral. I didn’t really feel anything, anything at all. I felt sorry for her devoted husband. I felt bad for her adopted son (who had already witnessed the death of his biological mother and grandmother, and was battling addiction.) But for myself… nada. What I didn’t realize then is that “counterpoint” is a relationship. She has always stood for weakness, to me. She blamed her father for her emotional issues until her death. She was so pushy, so obviously seeking love. So… needy. I can’t stand neediness in myself, and it bugs the crap out of me in other people. She saw herself in me, and tried many times to connect with me. I would have none of it. But without my counterpoint, I feel unsure. Like a floating yin.

This spring, my grandmother died. My grandmother was my rock. Everything I pull out of myself when times are tough, I get from her. She was quiet and calm, but not at all weak or ambiguous. Her calmness was one of certainty. She knew right from wrong, and what was important and what wasn’t. Her expectations were high and clear, always, and when I didn’t meet them, they didn’t change. She was an anchoring point in a childhood which was mostly frothy, black waves. She was not especially affectionate, which was actually perfect for me. It gave me nothing to bristle against. Nothing to fight or resist or resent. Just… guidance and history and ability. I know that she knew about my struggles with depression, drinking, etc. I’m sure it came up between her and my parents. Yet it never came up from her. I don’t know what she thought of it, but I know that I never fazed her even when I frightened a lot of people. She simply, calmly, moved forward. It was all just struggles and detours, taken in stride. It wasn’t until later than I learned how many struggles she’d had, and how my drama likely paled in comparison.

And now, as most people know, my cat of 19 years has died. I found Mackie when I was barely 20, and a few months before getting sober. Mackie was my bridge from a childhood of craziness and addiction to my current adulthood, and now that bridge has ended. And with this last loss, I feel so raw. I feel shoved into a different, disjointed stage of life. I could be anything or anyone. That is the gift. But I am finding that so much of who I am is about who other people are, and that without them I'm at a loss. I don’t know how to orient myself on my own, how to ground. Have you ever looked at small child’s hand in the night, when the blankey or teddy they usually clutch has fallen away? The hand flits around aimlessly, seeking its Something in the air. That’s where I am, today. Flitting. I know that adults do this all the time, but I can’t seem to quite get my legs under me.