March 11: "I Worried," Constant Companion, Tunnel Vision

Mary Oliver lists some of her worries . . .

I Worried

by:  Mary Oliver

I worried a lot.  Will the garden grow, will the rivers

flow in the right direction, will the earth turn

as it was taught, and if not, how shall

I correct it?

Was I right, was I wrong, will I be forgiven,

can I do better?

Will I ever be able to sing, even the sparrows

can do it and I am, well,

hopreless.

Is my eyesight fading or am I just imagining it,

am I going to get rheumatism,

lockjaw, dementia?

Finally I saw that worrying had come to nothing.

And gave it up.  And took my old body

and went out into the morning,

and sang.

I can relate to this poem in so many ways.  Worry has been a constant companion my whole life.  I'm serious.  When I was a young kid, I had a cyst removed from my neck, which led to me worrying about childhood cancer.  When I was a teenager, I ended up in ICU in a diabetic coma.  Since that time, I've had a lifelong fear of going to sleep, having a low blood sugar in the middle of the night, and never waking up.  My adult fears are multitude, from COVID to flat tires to unemployment to bankruptcy and everything in between.  If there was an Oscar for Best Worrier in a Leading Role, I would be the frontrunner.

This penchant for worry leads to a lot troubles, not the least of which is sadness and depression, which I've been seriously struggling with for about eight or nine months now.  The way I usually combat worry and depression is by keeping busy.  I put my head down and immerse myself in work all day until I'm too tired to think about anything but sleep.  I don't give myself time to feel anxious or sad.  

For the most part, this tactic works,  I am able to keep my head above water instead of drowning in a sea of indecision and confusion.  However, it also gives me tunnel vision.  I achieve my goals, but sometimes at a great cost to my mental and physical health, as well as my relationships with family and friends.  I was reminded of this fact very recently.

The opposite of faith isn't doubt, as most people think.  No, the opposite of faith is worry.  As a lifelong Christian, I've been told again and again to trust in God.  God will take care of me, especially in times of great distress.  That's easier said than done, especially when you're at the bottom of a deep hole.  I KNOW God is with me, watching over me, holding me up.  That doesn't make my shitty days any less shittier.

Now, I put up a good front.  If you see me out in public, I will be smiling, joking, interacting with the energy of Martha Stewart at a dinner party.  My jobs require this of me, and I pride myself at being good at what I do.  But the worry and sadness are still there, whispering in my ear, eating lunch with me, causing me to pause for several seconds before I dive into another task.  I've learned to live with them, push them aside, muscle forward.

(SIDE NOTE:  I do see a therapist for regular appointments.  I am depressed, not in denial.)

If you're a worrier, you're not alone.  If you struggle with depression, you're not alone.  You're human in a broken world.

And now Saint Marty will publish this post and start worrying about playing church services tomorrow morning.

February 26: Uncramped, Day-to-Day, Pain of Grief

Santiago works through his pain . . . 

He settled comfortably against the wood and took his suffering as it came and the fish swam steadily and the boat moved slowly through the dark water. There was a small sea rising with the wind coming up from the east and at noon the old man's left hand was uncramped.

I understand Santiago here.  He remains focused and resolute, despite the aches and cramps of his protesting body.  So much of life is like that.  Working through all the roadblocks until you reach your destination.  Sometimes, those roadblocks are tiny--a cramp in a hand.  And sometimes, they're huge--the death of a loved one.

Since my sister's funeral at the beginning of the month, I have found myself, at times, struggling with day-to-day obligations.  Yes, I've kept my head above water, but I feel as though I've been treading water a lot of the time.  Often, when I get home, I'm too exhausted to think of doing anything but going to sleep.

I'm not sure how much of this struggle is mental and how much is physical.  Certainly, I'm still working my way through the grieving process.  I can go for days without feeling sad, but then I find myself weeping in my car at a traffic light.  But I've also noticed that, since having COVID back at the beginning of January, my body simply doesn't want to function much past 8:30 p.m.   

So, if you are a friend of mine, and feel as if I've been distant or uncommunicative, I apologize.  If you've sent me a text or email, and it's taken me two days to respond to it, I am not ignoring you.  I just find myself a little . . . paralyzed at times.  Or asleep.

I think there's a perception in society at large that, once the funeral is over and leftovers from the wake are eaten, you must rejoin life fully, without missing a beat.  Doing anything less than that is considered a weakness.  Like you're wallowing in self-pity.  (Think Cher in Moonstruck, slapping Nicolas Cage in the face and shouting, "Snap out of it!")

I am here to tell you that it's not that easy.  On top of that, I'm a poet, and poets tend to obsess.  We do things like write entire books about a single mushroom.  At the moment, my obsession is a little existential.  Doing the tally, since 2014, I have lost three siblings and both of my parents.  Mortality has, more or less, been my constant companion for close to eight years now.

It is Saturday night.  Everyone else in my family is asleep.  I am sitting on the couch in my living room, staring at the lights on my Christmas tree.  (The fact that my Christmas tree is still up is not due to my current state of mind.  I often leave my Christmas decorations up for a long while.  They make me happy.  Remind me of my mom's holiday hams and family gettogethers  at my Grandma Hainley's house.)  I am thinking of my sister Rose.  And my mom and dad.  My sister Sally and brother Kevin.  All gone now.

British psychiatrist Colin Murray Parkes said, "The pain of grief is just as much a part of life as the joy of love; it is, perhaps, the price we pay for love, the cost of commitment."

Saint Marty will add to that statement:  the price of grief is sometimes exhaustion.