Saturday, April 12, 2008

The Naked Truth

"Oh, so are you in graduate school now?"

The question came from J~, a new friend, prompted by a passing remark about my application process. I had met her for the first time that afternoon at K~'s house, where she and I and M~, another mutual girlfriend, had gathered. After traveling to Northampton together to see a band (the Wailin' Jennys at the Iron Horse) we were making the long drive back. J~ had her neck craned around in the front passenger seat, and in the slanty headlight beams of the car behind us, her expression seemed bright and eager.

Instead of a straightforward response, I blabbed on and on about my tortured decision to apply, and to which and how many schools, about the pregnancy and miscarriage in the midst of it all, and how I felt okay, actually, about being waitlisted, even though my chances are extremely slim. I've been holding my life open for a child for four years, I said, and hearing this from my own mouth, it felt suddenly weighty and true. Memories flicked through my mind, all the branches of my life's path I did not explore for fear of losing my chance at motherhood. Suddenly the underlying emptiness felt undeniable, unconcealable.

I'm considering being an abortion counselor again, I went on, but I'm not sure that would be good for me, psychologically speaking — or a doula, or a miscarriage doula, if such a thing is possible, but I have internal arguments against those, too...

When I finally stopped talking, there was silence. Nothing but dark highway and a collective, carefully controlled deep breath. J~ unscrewed her neck and said to K~, our driver, "Speaking of babies, [Jane Smith] had her baby."

"Oh she did? What was it?" K~ asked.

"A human," J~ quipped, and the two laughed and bantered about this friend I don't know and her humanoid boy-or-girl offspring. M~ joined in as the topic shifted to more people I don't know. I sunk into my seat, feeling awful.

It was a simple yes or no question. I don't know why I answered the way I did. Maybe it was the novelty of having such animated, genuine attention from someone who didn't yet know my story. Maybe it was shame about the anticlimactic truth. Or maybe it was all the gorgeous mournful music we'd been listening to, loosening the drawstrings around my heart.

I keep insisting that I'm happy. I keep siting all the blessings in my life. But in a moment of weakness, the floodgates had opened and I was as surprised as my captive and unwitting audience at the stinking slurry of sadness and confusion that issued forth. I felt like I owed them all an apology, not for the truth of my feelings, but for subjecting them to it without ascertaining consent, or at least giving fair warning. But it didn't feel right to claim more group attention, so I did my best to let it go.

Here it is, people, the naked truth: as much as I'd like to think that I can root my engagement firmly in the myriad blessings of this present moment, cordoning off the wounded areas of my heart like a crime scene, sometimes I trip over the police tape and fall flat on my face.

But eventually I always get up and stumble around again, and inevitably I remember my belief that the key to emotional resilience is robust, honest emotional process. In other words: grieve to make room for joy.

It occurs to me now that perhaps the opposite is also true: If you take in enough joy, you crowd out the sadness and grieving becomes inevitable.

After saying thank yous and goodbyes in K~'s driveway, I climbed into my car and cried all the way home.

For the time being, anyway, I felt much better.

4 comments:

akakarma said...

I know what it is like to hang onto grief and pain- it can become a habit. I envy people who have joy as a habit- they must've had a different mother!lol It'll take awhile until your molecules follow your intention so be patient with yourself. You need to build and sustain a liveable and joyful life one whichever way your life turns, stay in mindfulness and then it will be or not and be okay. You live in my neck of the woods I see!

Sarah said...

Hi, I am not sure if I've ever commented before or not, but I'm a (relatively) long-time lurker.

I just wanted to say that you write beautifully. You have a way of describing things, of making the reader (at least this reader) feel like he or she was there with you, almost feeling what you were feeling. You definitely have a gift, and I hope no matter what path in life you take, you never lose that gift, or stop using it.

Thanks for sharing your life and feelings with all of us.

Paula said...

Perhaps you revealed more about yourself than they were comfortable with, but still, their response was extremely insensitive. If it had been me, I would have said something like, "Wow, you've been through a lot. It's no wonder it's hard to know what direction you want to go in. Being waitlisted gives you time to think it all through."
Just turning and talking about a friend who just had a baby and ignoring all you'd just said, shows me they are insensitive and have no experience with infertility.
I'm sorry you didn't get a more sympathetic ear there. You deserved better. Good luck with your searching and grieving.

Ann Smith said...

line1I'm so sorry that you weren't more sensitively heard and understood. What is it with people?!
I've been in the back of the car alongside you often enough to feel that could have been me. You have a lot of kindred spirits out here who'd have cried alongside you and wished they could fill that emptiness.
I think you're wonderful and brave to work on building the joy and crowding out the sorrow. I also wish that the world could be full of more understanding people who can sit with sadness and longing and reflect on it.