Who am I?

Grief:

“sensations of somatic distress occurring in waves lasting from twenty minutes to an hour at a time, a feeling of tightness in the throat, choking with shortness of breath, need for sighing, and an empty feeling in the abdomen, lack of muscular power, and an intense subjective distress described as tension or mental pain.” The year of Magical Thinking

I feel like I've been asking myself this question a lot lately. You'd think by 27 (almost 28) years old that I would know the answer by now. I think it's partly due to the fact that I'm not entirely happy with myself, and the person I've become, so it makes knowing my identity harder. Does that make sense? When I was younger I knew my flaws, but also knew how to handle them and for the most part was able to work through them. Now I know what I need to work on, but have lost faith in my strength to follow through. I think there are a finite number of times that you can promise yourself something, and then let yourself down before you start to doubt yourself. If you'd asked me 3 years ago if I knew who I was, and did I consider myself to be strong, the answer would be yes and yes. Now the answer isn't so clear.

Part of me knows I am a good friend and a good person in general, but then there are parts of me that are pretty dark. That sounds creepy; I don't sleep in a coffin at night, and I even ditched the black nail polish, more it's that I don't know that I have become someone to be proud of. I say this because I have a fear: I fear that my grandmother (Nan) is able to look down on me and that she would not be impressed. When she was alive she was not blind to my flaws, she thought I was a pretty awful teenager (she was correct) and that I should have helped my Mum out more around the house (also correct) But as I got older I think she really was proud of me. She never really wanted me to go to college - her old fashioned ways still shone through occasionally, but I don't think anyone was prouder than her when I graduated - with honors.

When I discovered I was pregnant she went to her local library and checked out a book on pregnancy. I didn't know this until I went to visit her when I was about 10 weeks pregnant, and saw the book in her living room. It was one of the funniest things I've ever read; I think it was from the 70's and the advice, clothing and dare I say, nether regions of the "models" were hilarious. But, she wanted a week-by-week idea of what I was going through. She would call me just to tell me things like "your baby is now the size of a Cantaloupe!" She had been known to also leave voice mails worrying that perhaps I was not eating enough fiber, and that she was reading about hemorrhoids and... well the information was disturbing enough first hand, I won't share.
I remember her being horrified that I was going to find out the sex of the baby - keep in mind this is the lady who had all her babies at home, drug free. eek. I told her I wouldn't tell her, but as I was walking out of the OB's office after learning I was having a boy, she was already calling my phone wanting to know details.

When Nicky was born she was the first person I called. I remember being happy that I finally got to meet my little man, while at the same in pain and cursing my Dr for making my intestines feel like they were going to fall out. But most of all a little sad that I was giving birth thousands of miles away from the one person I really wanted by my side. I had actually considered going to England to have Nick, but it would have really complicated things regarding his citizenship and my residency, and just wouldn't have made sense in the long run. When I told her I had named him after my brother - who is buried along side my Grandfather, her husband, (and now her) I could tell she was in tears. It meant so much to both her and my Mum, and thankfully Kenny was ok with it (not his choice... he wanted "London"...please...) But, her health was already fading at this point and mainly she just sounded exhausted.

She passed away less than a month later. I rushed with my colicky, reflux-nightmare of a newborn to London, alone, and wished I had made it back in time to say goodbye. Right before she died she told my Mum - who was by her side, that her only regret in life was that she didn't get a chance to meet Nicky. This tore me up for a long time, until I started to look at it from the angle that if this was her only regret, in 80+ years of life, that she had done pretty well.

*I may have already told parts of this story before, I have the memory of a goldfish so you'll have to forgive me.

Somehow I have ended up way off track; my point being that I worry *if* she is able to see me still, that she is disappointed in what she sees. I'm not a religious person, but I do like to think there is a heaven. I think everyone deals with loss in different ways, for me I had to know -after losing several people I loved, this wasn't it. I remember after losing my Grandmother I'd dream about her every night; I wouldn't see her sick and old though, but instead young, happy and in love. I told myself this was her life now, free from pain and back with my Grandfather.

Ugh, I've really gone off track here. I guess what I was trying to say is that I need to get back to being the person my Grandmother thought I was. Thankfully she never thought I was perfect, and there is always a certain amount of behind-the-scenes stuff that she's going to just have to deal with, we're all a little weird when the doors are closed. But, there is a lot I can do, if nothing else in order for me to be happier just being me.

*trying not to think about how many times I've mentioned change in this blog. bah.

** This is long; feel free to skim read or switch to something more entertaining like porn... quality porn, none of that amateur stuff please.

*** If I die before those who are reading this, know that yes I might haunt you, but no, I won't judge, no matter how weird you might be behind closed doors.

Fini.

~Painting by Gene Gould.