Grief Stole the Mic

 Today the grief is epic and palpable and my teeth are gritted but I can't seem to move past it. Its engulfing every moment, every task, every breath. And its intimately connected to every past grief, great and small. It feels like the time I was in elementary school and my brother went away to summer camp for 2 weeks and I went into the lonely emptiness of his room and sobbed. It feels like the even bigger empty space he created when he died and left pockets of lonely emptiness everywhere. It feels like the deep longing ache of missing ma p'tite Maman, and wanting to call and cry all of these giant lonely engulfing griefs into her arms until the holes are filled with water and no longer empty but weighted down with love. Because grief tears are love tears. The two always dance together.

I thought maybe writing it down, vomiting it out, would provide some relief. But it hasn't. 

I was trying to think, why now? Why this moment? What is different about today besides the gray and the rain?

We went camping this weekend for the first time in a long time. Its been forever since we've gone this long without a getaway. We had a wonderful time with the dearest of friends, and I felt seen and loved. I've been doing new hard things and challenging myself and the wrong ideas about what I am capable of and finding so much joy in it. I took my little funky monkey to homecoming, and directed their friends in a photo shoot and felt so loved when they told me I was the absolute opposite of embarrassing, and called out loudly "I love you, Mama!" not once, but THREE times. In front of their peers! This is like winning the teenager moments lottery!

So why this deep grief today? Is it because usually I leave the kids at the house when WB is with them and today they left me at the campground? Is it because so much has changed since the last time we went camping and trips are the markers of time for me? Is it just because shit feels more real in this moment?

I always tell the kids joy and grief are always walking hand in hand through every moment of life. And its okay, that's the way life is meant to be. It is so much deeper and more beautiful an experience because of it. Maybe I have just been hyper aware of the joy lately, and grief needed to be heard too.

Saying the Words

 Tonight at couples counseling we admitted we are heading towards divorce and not reconciliation. At least I did. With prompting. A lot of prompting.

I haven't wanted to say the words aloud- I've resisted it. Like the time at counseling when it took WB an hour to say "I feel sad" and he dodged around the words as if they were daggers until he heard himself say "I can recognize, there may possibly be some sadness there" and realized how ridiculous it was. That was me, in my avoidance dance, desperately repeating that I was completely devoid of hope but unwilling to pull the trigger in saying what that lack of hope meant and instead showing up week after painful week through gaslighting and manipulation, stress hives and neck pain, and constant fight or flight in my body. 

But tonight I stayed mostly centered. Tonight I trusted in my own knowing instead of letting someone else's story of me become my own that I carried like the heaviest weight around this very injured (both literally and metaphorically) neck.

And with the words came both freedom and epic grief. Heartbreak.

He asked, in a way that sounded like an accusation (as is his custom....the way I imagine one of those giant pointing foam fingers would sound if they could talk. And if they had massive trust issues. And completely unprocessed childhood trauma. Of the foam variety) what specifically was heartbreaking to me. I didn't even know how to answer that. I didn't understand the question. I mean, everything. Everything about it is heartbreaking. He asked, in his foam finger voice, how I could be heartbroken if I had no hope left. 

I'm not sure if it was his way of trying to say he still wanted to fight for the marriage, or if he was just trying to still lash out at me, but either way it was this incredibly sad and crystal clear illustration of what happens between us. Badgering the witness to list the exact nature of the heartbreak, in bullet points with footnotes, isn't helpful in any way. The only way to move in any direction before being swallowed entirely by quicksand is empathy and compassion. For ourselves as well as for each other. 

I won't engage in the who is right battle anymore. That will continue for lifetimes if we let it, and I don't have any more flesh to amputate. Really I just want peace. Empathy. Compassion. I want my confidence back. I want to hear my own knowing louder than someone else's deeply damaging story. I want to honor the knowing in my body (the body always knows) that has been screaming for years now. I want to live in self trust rather than fear and doubt. The view is so much better. Location location location. 

But tonight, I'm trying to sit compassionately with my deep grief. No foam fingers allowed, 

A Faux Identity Crisis Response to a Beautiful Love Letter

 Tonight Mr. Artsy Hotpants sent me the piece he had written about us and our time together in the city. It was heartbreaking and beautiful, wistful and spot on. And it made me ache so profoundly for that time and those versions of us. 

Don't get me wrong, I am not washed up and done for. This version of the self is not leftover breakfast pizza that never made it into the fridge the night before. But this version is definitely more tired...leaps and bounds more tired...and maybe up for more adventures of the calm and peaceful and quiet type, and less the hilariously slightly dysfunctional type. 

MAH said we grew up. We became adults. 

I desperately want to fight this assertion. Even the kids say I am not a grown up, because I am an actor and artists don't ever really grow up. (I may have spoon fed them this version, because its the version I like best). This is partly true- you have to be a notch below full on grown up to be able to live in (or belly flop into?) the world of imagination. But if I'm fully honest, there is an awful lot of grown up shit occupying the remnants of brain space that remain. 

And I hate that.

The current iteration of the self lives so much less in the moment than the nyc iteration. NYC Synge gave very few fucks about unimportant shit - she was too busy just trying to survive and drinking up (sometimes literally) all the adventures and stories to be found. Middle age Synge finds too much shame around every bend and every decision and every perceived failure at being grown up. Middle aged Syge wants to be NYC Synge, but is just too tired, and the kids won't ever pause for breath in neverending monologues that seem to resume the second they wake back up again, and everyone is about to run out of clean underwear but instead of doing laundry she eats the entire bag of pirate's booty while watching mindless television and then has to stay up until 5:30am catching up on the work hours she somehow neglected while maniacally shoving fistfuls of white cheddar puffs of unknown origin into her face. 

But for just the briefest of moments tonight, I got to feel that NYC Synge space and time. 

It felt thrilling and oddly illicit, and then it was over. And what remains is an enormous longing that feels like boulders stacked haphazardly on my chest, white cheddar dust scattered all over the chair, and the sinking awareness that while I was supposed to be working, I wrote a post on an ancient hidden blog and tonight will not be the night I finally get my shit together.

(NYC Synge would not give any fucks, and would already be laughing at this over wine with her beloved MAH)

My Dear Hidden Blog, How I've Missed You

So I have this other blog, that's supposed to be the main event, the documenting of my life....and I never write in it. Somehow the fact that its a family blog, the fact that its not all about me, well, that just makes it boring to write. I guess its not new to anyone but me...I am a solipsistic blogger. Hello, my name is Synge and I'm self centered...at least in the blogging sense.

This here blog is my hidden blog. The one WB never wants to find because it has stories of my dating life before him, and he's Puerto Rican and jealous. Make that very very jealous. Its silly, but it feels almost like a betrayal to be writing here in this hidden blog, for that reason.

However, I need something that is mine and mine alone. I'm realizing more and more how important that is. And while I may not be as witty as in my former New York life, and I certainly don't have the same sort of interesting [read dramatic] stories as I did before, I'd like to come back here and visit every so often. Its like my little internet pied-a-terre, where I can come to be alone and sit in a comfy chair and just be with myself. A roaring fire would be nice too. And maybe some hot sake. Everything is better with a little hot sake.

Why I Have Been a Blogging Slacker aka This Time I Really Do Have a Good Excuse

Ummm, surprise?

Bet that explains a lot, huh?

So I must confess - I have another blog. Yes, I've neglected this wonderful blog which has been steadfast and true, for a newer younger blog. But hey, I'm cooking a baby here and I only got but so much energy (which is really ummm, none) per day! So here's the new BABY BLOG, which I will be primarily posting on. I'm still going to keep this one around (hidden on my profile so that WB can't find it - he's been adamant from the start about not wanting to read it...he can't take reading about all my previous exploits with the men) to write about grown up things that I wouldn't want everyone in the world to be able to read. But I will probably be posting less often. Right now my world pretty much revolves around pregnancy anyway, and that you can read all about on the BB...gas and all.

The other little tidbit of news is that we're leaving New York at the end of this month (like less than 3 weeks away...yikes!!!). After four wonderful years, many adventures, and a hell of a good time, I'm saying goodbye to this place I love so dearly, at least for now. Its a hard transition, but the more the pregnancy progresses, the more I realize that I don't want to raise a child here..not unless I win the lottery and get filthy rich. Its too hard, not enough nature, and the pace is exhausting now...I can't imagine with kids! Also, a huge factor in the decision, if not the main one, is that Maman would not get a chance to really be able to be a part of this child's life for whatever time she's got left if we don't move close by. She's can't really travel much, and we couldn't go back and forth with a baby like we've been doing. Its hard on us, and we're ostensibly grown-ups (though thaht's debateable)...it would be incredibly disruptive for the baby (and the debateable grown-ups as well). All in all I feel pretty good about the decision, though there's a tiny part of me that has a hard time letting go of this particular incarnation of my dream. That's normal, I know, and it doesn't mean that I'm not excited about motherhood (because lord knows I am!), it just means that I have a transition process to go through. And I am....right after I finish freaking out about the actual physical realities of the moving process (namely that I have wayyyy too much shit! And its got to be packed! FUCK!).

And now I'm exhausted from writing this and I need a nap. See? That's why I've gotten very little done in the past 12 weeks.

There Are Tiger Pictures at the End If You Can Just Sift Through All the Babble

Yet again I come crawling on my hands and knees, begging apologies for my blog negligence. I could cry on your shoulder about the horrible strep throat of death I had last week, which kept me in a feverish state of constant sobbing due to the fact that I evidently swallowed about 26 straight razorblades which were seemingly lodged in my throat and were not about to abandon their prime posts. Yes, it was gruesome and horrendous and the poor Boar was desperately trying anything and everything to make me just the slightest bit more comfortable. I did appreciate greatly the 8am run for no-sugar added real fruit popsicles. Especially since I was literally that specific in my request. I also appreciated his voluntary banishment to the couch, which I might add is in the room without the air conditioning. He is an angel indeed.

Yes, I could cry on your shoulder about all of that, but I have survived and am feeling human once again, and really, we all know that I'll be lax in my posting again, strep or no strep.

So instead, I'll complain about the fact that my refrigerator is completely broken and we had to throw away absolutely everything inside it, condiments and all, thus effectively flushing about $200 right down the toilet. Yay! There is nothing I love more than flushing my 2 jobbed hard earned perpetual exhaustion causing money down the toilet! To make matters worse, my super shows up to look at it today, stares at it for about 10 minutes before concluding that its broken. Gee, thanks! I hadn't figured that out from the stench of food gone bad! He has no idea how long it will take for them to get a repairman in there to fix it, so now we are stuck throwing even more money down the toilet by outsourcing every meal. Lovely.

And now, to leave you with the few pictures I took during our office trip to the awesome Bronx Zoo before I realized that I had brought a bunch of uncharged rechargeable batteries, just to make this post even more ragtag than it already was:

Evidently I'm Ancient

The other day as I was doing the two job shuffle, going from one to another right around the time the local high school got out, I overheard one of the funniest converstaions I've heard in a long time. Imgine the following, but in rapid squeaky I'm cooler-than-you teenage voices:

Girl 1: Well just think, when you're 18 you can do whatever you want, and no one can tell you you can't do something.
Girl 2: Yeah but by the time I'm 18 I'll be old and a grown up and my life will be over and I won't even want to do any of the fun stuff I want to do now. It'll be too late, I'll be old and boring.

Ah yes, I remember when I turned 18 and became a spinster rocking in my rocking chair and communing with the neighborhood cats...life was indeed over. If only I'd been able to stay out late and go to certain parties my life would never have been such a useless wasteland of nothingness. The world will never know what genius would have befallen it had I only been able to do wjhatever I wanted to as a teenager. Life is so unfair, dude.

Do Not Disturb

Yesterday I wrote a post about how frustrating it is to keep secrets. In general. Because it is frustrating. However, it was clearly a mistake to post it here in the blog, as it has prompted a very unwelcome bevy of inquiries by several close friends who read this blog. The gossip train is running full speed and I'm really slightly pissed about it.

If I say I have a secret, that means it is something I do not wish to or cannot disclose. It does not mean please call me 3 times in one day (and counting) while I am at work (I work 2 jobs remember? I'm usually at work until at least 10pm) and cannot pick up the phone. Because frankly, no matter how many times you call, I will not tell you what the secret is until I am able to, if I am ever able to. I would expect a little respect for my privacy. I would never badger someone to tell me something if they said it was a secret; I would assume it was a secret for a very good reason.

I'm sorry if this sounds harsh, but it has been a very frustrating day. Perhaps I was naive in thinking that I could post about something that was bothering me without it becoming a huge deal. I was told by someone that if I post on a blog which I know friends read that I am asking to be harassed, so I want to set the record straight right now that I do not wish to be harassed and am genuinely sorry I ever write that post. Please respect my need for privacy and discretion.

(That being said, I must also include that my friends love me very much and their harassment does come from a well meaning, if erroneous, place. )

Photo of the Day

Snowball

Photo of the Day

31 Kisses for 31 Years

Photo of the Day

Urban Cotton

Next Week Maybe I'll Even Tackle Pottytraining

At 31 years of age I am just now learning (hopefully) enough self control not to pick my scabs.

Sad but oh so true.

On Sudden Death vs Fatal Illness

A friend at the sdj just received the news this afternoon that his mother died suddenly. The news was unexpected and the affect positively heartbreaking in such a way that I have no words for it, just a heart that aches for him and what he's going through. There was a domino effect, of course, and everyone within a 10 cube range got on the phone and called their mother, suddenly hyper-aware of the fragility of life.

Everyone except for me.

I mean yes, I did immediately get on the phone and call Maman, of course, but my experience is different because frankly I'm already more than aware of Maman's mortality. In fact her death is not a distant nightmare possibility, the spectre of which can be erased with a simple phone call. Her death is a reality, and a more imminent one than it is for most of my coworkers.

It got me thinking about how surreal it is to live with the knowledge of approaching death. Maman has been talking about it more and more, admitting (at least to me, probably not to my father) that she is dying, and we don't know how much time she has left. It could be 10 months, it could be 10 years (though that is highly unlikely, as her tumors are growing again, she's back on the hard core chemo regime, and her body's tolerance is pretty damn low at this point). But she summed it up well when she said that you can't get consumed by the knowledge that death is a soon-to-be reality, or else you're already dead, completely paralyzed by the idea. I think its definitely similar for those on the survivor end of the spectrum. Even knowing that Maman is going to die... its not a reality I can fully give over to, nor is it a reality I can ignore. I'm not deluding myself into thinking she will get better, because she won't, but I'm also not letting fear take over my life (which I think is what is happening to my father).

When my brother commit suicide, it was both a sudden extreme shock and no surprise whatsoever. He had been mentally ill for a long time (longer than anyone but me knew), and had already tried to commit suicide once before so it was always this looming threat hovering menacingly over every aspect of daily life. I even ran away to Europe for 3 months to escape the fear and the pressure of caring for him. Yet when it finally happened, it felt like such a shocking punch to the gut, knocking the wind right out of me. I think we can't ever fully wrap our heads around death, and even when we know its going to happen, the shock of it can never fully be erased. We can't fathom the finality of it until we are experiencing it.

So in my opinion, knowing that Maman is going to die does not in any way make it an easier pill to swallow than a sudden death, it just means I'm more aware of mortality in general.

And maybe just a teensy bit jealous of those who are blissfully unaware.

Love It

Interspecies Conversation Between a Monkey and a Boar

I sent The Wild Boar a link to this Hemmingway Challenge from the Guradian, which I found via the ever awesome Sarah Brown (who's Cringe night I keep meaning to go to. Somehow I have yet to make it there alive). Here are the emails that followed:

From: Wild Boar To: Le Synge Bleu
Superb new mind. Adversity. Small room.

From: Le Synge Bleu To: Wild Boar
a little obtuse for my taste

From: Wild Boar To: Le Synge Bleu
Wow,obtuse? excuse me
I just threw a pebble
That’s all

From: Le Synge Bleu To: Wild Boar
Main Entry: ob·tuse Pronunciation: äb-'tüs, &b-, -'tyüsFunction: adjectiveb : difficult to comprehend : not clear or precise in thought or expression

From: Wild Boar To: Le Synge Bleu
ob·tuse (ŏb-tōōs', -tyōōs' )adj. ob·tus·er, ob·tus·est
-Lacking quickness of perception or intellect.
-Characterized by a lack of intelligence or sensitivity: an obtuse remark

From: Le Synge Bleu To: Wild Boar
Its used more frequently in the connotation of the first definition*

From: Wild Boar To: Le Synge Bleu
sil·ly Pronunciation[sil-ee] adjective, -li·er, -li·est, noun, plural -lies.
-absurd; ridiculous
-Le Synge Bleu

From: Le Synge Bleu To: Wild Boar
I love you

[* = my very own obtuse remark, due to very awkward phrasing]

This is a rather typical exchange. Yes we are dorks. Dorks who flirt by way of dictionary definitions. Its a damn good thing we found eachother, though the prospect of us procreating is a scary thought indeed.