Molly’s Journals

Recently, I have been going through the journals that Molly kept during the last years of her life.

“Going through” the journals doesn’t really get at what the activity is; “mourning with the journals” describes the experience much better.

There are incredible gifts within the pages: notes about how much she loves her family and friends and the recognition that she has help to deal with her challenges.   There are days that I cling to those entries for sanity.

But, oh there is pain too.   She describes a “parallel world that coexists with my mind but not reality.”  Describing that parallel world, she writes about herself as “an agent part of a corporation called The Company.”  She notes that her boss is “Danny who I apparently love.”  She explains that The Company is “sometimes considered terrorists because we had an incident years ago that killed 3 civilians and 2 officers.”   She goes on to say that “I recently retired from the agency but am currently working with Danny to find a new president of the agency and watch the gang that killed Mark and others.”  Geesh.    The entry was written in pencil…   but later she had gone over it with red ink, noting “Yeah, I’m insane.”

In another entry she notes, “I wish I could get a terminal illness so I could live life to the fullest.”    In a list of prepared questions for her therapist (which I don’t think she ever asked) she included things like, “Do you think I’m some sort of supernatural/non-human being?  Partially?”  And also, “I’m capable of killing someone, does that make me crazy?” 

Molly describes herself this way, “I live in 2 worlds, does that make me crazy?  They clash, making me hyperactive, paranoid, depressed, untrusting, cruel, apathetic…  driven by my head not my heart.”

This is a child who played sports, was in plays, got good grades, was unfailingly kind to her parents and had some good friends.   This is a child who was challenging to raise at times, but was never in trouble, did not use alcohol or drugs and learned, quite early in life I think, to hide her real life experience.  These journals were never meant to be seen.

My deepest sadness comes from the realization that in some ways, I never really knew Molly.  I think its impossible to really know someone who won’t be known.  But it still hurts.  It really, really hurts. 

2:30

It was 2:30 this afternoon when I realized I had accomplished most of the things that I typically aspire to (but don’t generally complete) as my beginning-of-the-day routine on “work days.”  You know the drill:

Sleep.  Goodness knows I am SHOCKED by how late I am sleeping.  Check.

Delicious and healthy breakfast – complete with a warm cup of tea and actually sitting down at the kitchen table.  Check.

Work-out – and by this I mean some cardio and some stretches.  Today was a walk and some Wii.  Check.

Preparing food for the rest of the day.  Among other tasks:  grinding flax seeds, squeezing lemon and limes into a pitcher of water and a quick run to the store to pick up dinner.  Check.

Meditation.  I have the newish Deepak Chopra guided meditation cd and I am trying to work with that.  And it is hard for me to do.  1/2 Check.

Unpack the dishwasher.   Enough said.  Check.

Now, I feel very balanced for having accomplished all of this as I “started” my day, but let us be abundantly clear:  when I have to be in a classroom by 7 AM this fall,  this program that ends at about 2:30 PM (after shower and getting dressed)  is simply not going to work. 

And that is part of the challenge of vacations.  In being re-introduced to a pattern and a pace of life that actually makes sense, the clock ticks and we are thrown back in to such a cacophony of commitments, schedules and pressures that it is easy to forget what we really want to be about while we walk this earth.  

How will I ever make the transition to working again?

I am not going to tackle that right now, even though the question of how to maintain this vacation equilibrium is inherent in every aspect of my time off.  For today I am really grateful that my pace is my own.  Others will own it soon enough.

A Nature Hike

Molly’s friends were mature and generous with us after Molly died – and so were their parents.

One of those parents died yesterday. 

This is the third death to touch my life in the last six weeks and I am once again brought up short.  Experience doesn’t make it any easier to find the right words to say or the right gesture to put out there.  I find myself awed in the wake of mourning.

I have experienced mourning as sobbing…  as pain…  as confusion and loss.  But I have also, and this summer is one of those times, experienced mourning as inspiration.  I see – I know – that a devastating diagnosis can come at any time; I want to be assured that I have lived out my opportunities when my physical or mental capabilities wane.

So, yesterday, a really challenging hike.  A hike in honor of my friend who died.  A hike over rocks that were here thousands of years before we were born and will be there thousands of years after we are gone.  A hike to revel in the creativity of whoever it is that sustains us and a hike to be reminded that while nature does not promise safety, she ultimately does offer comfort.  

 

Nature will not blink at our death or our injury.  She has seen death before and she is big enough – vast enough – to hold it. 

A Quiet Spell

Quiet.   NOTHING happening.  After a summer of travel, engagement, family, learning and adventure my calendar is empty for the next two weeks. 

In theory this is a good thing.  Theoretically, I can exercise, eat well, clean, meditate, read, paint, catch up with friends.  I am doing some of all of that, and feel the better for it. 

But without the plane to catch or the guest to entertain or the hostess to be just that much more pleasant for, my first thoughts of the day are not a joyous exclamation of “This is the the day the Lord has made, let us rejoice and be glad in it.”  No, my thoughts go more along the lines of, “How in the hell do I fill this day?”  Turns out that even with plenty of interests, days can be very long.

Mourning creeps in to these quiet days.  Self blame hides in the corners.  To some extent, I can welcome them – the self-pity, the blame the loss.  They are welcome to visit – but they cannot stay.

And that’s the challenge, isn’t it?   Having opened the door for overwhelming sadness and confusion – who require no invitation -  how do I gracefully suggest that they move on? 

My plan for today?  A visit to our local thrift store, a run and maybe I’ll try a new recipe tonight.  Tomorrow, I am hiking with some neighbors.    And that’s as far as I have it planned – because as challenging as quiet spell is, I sense that there are gifts here for me that I don’t want to squander in meaningless scheduling.

Bring on the quiet.  I am ready.

Thin

Molly was in my dreams last night…  ill, suffering, confused.   But alive.  Which is not that common of an occurrence for me; maybe 10 times in two and a half years Molly has visited my dreams. 

And then, this morning, in my ritualistic trolling through Facebook,  I have two completely independent inquiries from Molly’s childhood friends.  One of them, I imagine, knows that Molly has died.  One of them probably does not.  It has been years – many years – since I have interacted with either one.

I welcome the dreams.  And though I never know quite how to respond,  I am flattered by the childhood friends reaching out.  But I am really caught up in the synchronicity.

Why is all of this happening today?  At the same time?  What energy field has shifted that we are, independently, caught up in Molly?   Where is that thin surface that opened up for just a brief time?  I want to find it… put my hand to the veil…  say hello.  

Forgiving Myself

Did I listen to Molly as well as I should of?  No.

Did I understand the clues she was dropping about her suffering?  No.  Did I take the time to attempt to imagine what she might be experiencing?   Not really.

Did my pride in her many – many – accomplishments blind me to her mounting disintegration?   For a long time, it did.

Did I really understand – as opposed to know – that mental illness is potentially fatal?  Absolutely not.

And yet. 

Did I love her and give her everything I knew how to give?  Yes.  And did she love me?  Yes, again.

Did we have fun together and laugh and make wonderful memories?  We did.

Did she learn and grow and travel and experience the world?  In spades.

Did she love, and was she loved?  Absolutely.

I gave everything I knew how to give for 17 years…  and she returned those gifts with love and humor.  I was not perfect, but I did not cause her death and I do not hold myself responsible for it. 

There is pain in looking back with hindsight, because I see things differently now.  I know that in calling my attention to a news story about a girl we didn’t know who died in a very unusual car accident, Molly was trying to tell me something.  In insisting that she would not be able to go to a good friend’s graduation party (with no good reason), Molly was dropping a hint that I couldn’t hear.   There was another hint when she took so much comfort in learning that there was mental illness in her biological history; maybe I should have pursued that more.

I can see – it’s like a magnifying glass – that I was not perfect.  And I forgive myself for that.  

Visiting Portland

Why travel?   Having just returned to the east coast from a whirlwind trip to Portland, OR, I think it’s a valid question.  Cross country travel wears you down – body, mind and soul – in somewhat the same fashion that I imagine running a marathon does.  Not that I would know.

Travel is exhausting.  It is expensive.  It is uncomfortable and risky.  Yesterday, I travelled through six airports; if you want reviews on airports amenities, I am your girl.

And yet.  By traveling to Portland I was able to reconnect with a dear friend, find some inspiration in the landscape, and live outside of my own ruts and routines for awhile.  I saw myself strong: able to tackle a challenging hike, strike up conversations with unfamiliar people and make my way through airports well enough to get where I was going without breaking down in  heart-wrenching sobs.

My heart and mind were expanded just a bit on this trip, and while home is familiar,  as I rest, I see home and my life here through slightly different eyes.  And isn’t that the challenge of living after Molly’s death?  I need to build a new life out of the familiar; I need to evaluate previous routines and develop new ones.  I need so see myself in new situations and recognize my own strength.

So, I travel to challenge myself into a unknown future and  I am oh so glad that I went to Portland.