My Mystical Quandary

Last night, while going through the grueling process of self-pity, I spent some time pondering life’s precarious predicaments. After all, I am perpetually lost within the darkness of one of those precarious predicaments. My husband is gone. Regardless of how much I scream, beg, and cry, he will still be gone. I know that his soul continues to exist, but I will not see him again while on this earth. He visited me a few times, but he does not visit anymore. This is what I thought, in between sobs and the question of why, why, why.

I am slowly fathoming the reason why he refuses to see me. My spirituality demands that I believe everything happens for a reason. Logically, I know this; however, emotions usually trump logic. His death was not just a random occurrence. He died because my karma demands some retribution. I do not remember why I chose this lonely existence, but I assume that my soul owes a massive debt to my eternal growth. He refuses to see me for two reasons. One—it is the hell I must endure to advance spiritually and two—he has his own soul growth with which to tend.

One may think that accepting answers would lead to peace. I wish that were the case. I remain in a perpetual state of uproar. Tranquility looms just out of reach. I have two choices—I can simply accept my castigation and resign myself to living as a fraud or I can reinvent myself and be content with the knowledge that I am mortal and mortality has its limits. What a mystical quandary I face.

  I reluctantly abandon my dreams—my dream of growing old with the man I love with all my heart, my dream of becoming a writer, my dream of happiness, and my dream of helping others. I buried the largest part of my dreams the day I buried him, but vestiges drift in the aura surrounding me. Those vestiges are slowly drifting away. I surrender to the dreamless existence, which offers only emptiness. I had such a big heart. Sometimes, I wondered whether I am an empath. I feel as though my heart is shrinking. I still feel, I still absorb the sadness of others around me, but I no longer feel that I am capable of helping them.

Doyle and I had plans for retirement. Once I began teaching, he could retire. I was planning to buy a metal detector for him so that he would have a hobby. He had big plans for working in the shop we built. I had big plans of coming home to his arms after long days. We never had that opportunity. His life ended much too soon. My life ended about two weeks prior to his. I try to pretend that we are holding each other, sometimes even falling asleep that way, but I always wake with tears on my pillow.

My dream of becoming a writer, while still looming around me, has died for the most part. So few people actually read what I write. A friend said it is because my writing is so depressing, but I do not believe that. My writing is just not as good as I thought. He was my biggest fan and his encouragement drove me. I read everything I wrote to him, regardless of how long. He would praise me and sometimes, even make suggestions. I am not a narcissist, but I admit that his devotion encouraged me to continue writing. Now, I suppose I write because I began writing as a little girl and believed it was my destiny. I do not believe that anymore. I am beginning to believe that my destiny was to have 20 years of bliss with the man I love, and then be plunged into darkness for atrocities I committed in previous lives. To endure this hell for the remainder of this life is my destiny.

I once thrived in helping others. I could often find the right thing to say or know just when to listen. Now, how can I help others when I cannot even help myself. All I am capable of now is absorbing their pain, but with no resolutions to absolving it. I have become useless. There it is—I have no purpose anymore. I merely exist.

Relief can only come in the form of death, but I signed a contract. How funny that I am bound by contractual obligations to endure my sentence. I imagine a heavy scroll stuck in an array of endless shelves, just gathering dust. Ironically, the written word that I love so much is the very harness that confines me to hell. To take my own life would be equivalent to breaking a contract with God. I cannot do that because then, I would be condemned to endure another life or I might not get to see him. I cannot take that chance.

The time is nearing that I make my choice—accept my fate and learn to embrace this fraudulent existence or simply evolve into another person and wait for it all to end. My mystical quandary is complex. For now, I can only accept my fate and continue living as a fraud, feigning laughter at the right moments and pretending as though I enjoy living alone knowing that I will never again know love or even making love. However, at the back of my mind is the thought that the two options can merge—along with empty existence, I must find contentedness with the knowledge that mortality has its limits. I wait.

©2012 Relinda R.

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No More Thanksgiving, No More Christmas

Today, four years ago, we went shopping together. The air was turning cool and I was excited about welcoming autumn. He hated winter because he worked outside in the cold and the cold seeped into his bones. We would jokingly argue about summer versus winter, teasing each other about who was right. Since he had to work outside all day, he won, but he knew how much I loved the autumn season. It does not matter to me anymore. I barely notice the seasons now. I loved seeing all the color among the trees and the cool breeze, just whispering that cuddling weather was near. I do not cuddle anymore. When our children were small, we loved getting ready for the holidays. We would go shopping together and hide presents so that the kids would have a happy Christmas. We had a tree and decorated to celebrate the holiday. Every Thanksgiving, I would begin preparing food the day before and the next morning, I would wake early to get the turkey into the oven. I always wanted to watch the Macy’s Thanksgiving parade and he preferred the Sci-fi channel. I teased him so much about that channel because it plays some of the corniest shows. He teased me about watching parades. I do not watch parades anymore. Instead, I watch the Sci-fi channel. I push 1-2-2 on the remote and just stare at the screen. It is funny, I can stare at it for hours, but I could not tell you what I am watching. I could sketch the Sci-fi logo in my sleep though. Now, Pepper da’ schnauzer and I eat peanut butter and jelly on Thanksgiving Day and remember when there was turkey and laughter in our home.

The autumn I once treasured is gone. The only thing that matters now is the colder weather. I get sick of the heat. Physically, I need the winter. Mentally, I do not know if I can make it through another winter. I am realizing that my belief of life being purposeful fades, as the knowledge that my existence is merely punishment becomes reality.

©2012 Relinda R.

“I love you and that’s all I know”

All my plans have fallen through,
All my plans depend on you, depend on you to help them grow,
I love you and that’s all I know.

When the singer’s gone let the song go on…

But the ending always comes at last,
Endings always come too fast,
They come too fast but they pass too slow,
I love you and that’s all I know . (Art Garfunkel “All I Know” written by Jimmy Webb)

I tried to watch a comedy today. Flop. I cried. I find that I am extraordinarily talented at securing my emotions behind this mask I don each day, but I am still rather shocked at the depth of pain it secures when I remove it in solitude. The last three years have led me to believe that the talents I once possessed had died, and now I discover that I have acquired a new talent—acting.  The grief bottled in my soul escapes when I am alone and threatens to destroy me. It is all right though because I am alone. As long as no one sees it, it is all right. Actually, I have been unable to stop crying for the last four days. My karmic debt must be massive. I keep asking when will I be released, but He does not answer. When I cry myself to sleep and wake up an hour later, I know I still owe on the bill. I have also been asking what I did, in either this life or a past life, to accumulate this much karmic debt. No one answers. An answer could hint to how much time I owe and at least provide something in which to look forward. I visited his grave today. I cried.

My mask becomes iron-like as I stoically face each day. The only problem is my eyes. One cannot hide his or her eyes. Mine are red and swollen, but fortunately, few notice. At least when I use the excuse of my tiredness, it works because I actually am exhausted. I do not dare say that I am tired of living like this. I only say that I am tired. It works and it is not a complete lie.

I know that realistically, the tears will end. No one can continue to function when a song makes him or her cry or seeing a flower’s bloom makes him or her fall to the ground and lament the cycle of life. In the meantime, all I must do is make sure no one sees the tears and repeatedly assure everyone that their plight is much worse than my own, even whilst my heart knows that they have someone waiting at home. I think that one of the most difficult parts of pretending is knowing that people honestly believe they understand while I know that they have the arms of their loved one waiting to hold them at night. The most difficult part is knowing that when I say, I’m good, I am a fraud.

I think that as I near the three-year mark, I am nearing the point of collapse. I am just praying that my mask is strong enough to hide my inevitable collapse, at least until I am alone. I expect nothing from life anymore, but to hear from the other side would help me to cope. If only I could hear him whisper, “It is going to be all right,” perhaps I could gain the strength to finish paying the karmic debt I owe. Until then, I just continue to march along, enduring my punishment, and asking God, how much longer, Lord, how much longer.

©11.2012 Relinda R.