And then there were five. Or, at least there will be once I stay Bright tonight. And I can feel it coming. Even with chocolate cake sitting on the kitchen counter, I know it's not for me, and that I will have another Bright night. There is a quote shared on my bootcamp Facebook page today, that is apropos to how I am feeling just now. " I am learning to love the sound of my feet walking away from things not meant for me." I made a weak attempt to find the origins of this, but was overwhelmed by the images - this is obviously popular and I am not alone in having it ring truth to power. Funny that it took so long to make it's way into my arena of influence.
Our master mind group this morning was...wonderful? Enlightening? It's such an incredible experience to learn that we share so much in common, coming from such diverse back grounds to arrive here on similar paths. Of course, food is our path apparently, to do the work towards enlightenment. Or some such. And it's our struggles with eating that have brought us to this inner-work, and so a shout out to Bright Line Freedom and Susan B Thompson for throwing out the signposts to get us to the point.
This morning I spoke a bit to the group, just a little, about how this coming week will mark another anniversary since Joey passed. Passed on, passed through ... just gone from his human experience, and from our lives. And finally I am able to say truthfully that I will not let losing him mean that I will lose myself too. I'm sure I'm misquoting someone horribly, but you get the gist. I can no longer hide under the guilt, I can no longer use it as shield between myself and living a worthwhile life. Maybe it's the sugar/flour brain cloud lifting that is helping me to see more clearly, and letting me release the idea that I was somehow responsible for his death so early in his life. Early on I would try to comfort myself by telling the story that this was just his path, that he had learned what he came here to experience and was moving on. But I was never able to let go of the feeling that I had played a part; that I had failed as his mother. I should have been more aware, and done more to protect him.
And while I still feel that is true, I also know I did the best I could, loved him the best I knew how, and tried to be there for him as he struggled on his way. But for years I had a story rattling around in my head, that I was unworthy of anything, and didn't care about anything. And now I know that this story was just that, a story. Something I told myself to justify my distance from the world. The big excuse for always saying no to invitations, my get out of jail free card for social commitments and participating. It's time to let the story go.
What I said this morning, is that through our parts work, I have learned that crying is a natural way to release emotions, and that this year my tears are for releasing grief, not for feeling sorry for everything. And I will let them come as they will, and be filled with love instead of anguish as I do my grieving. How I wish I could see him, hug him, and hear his voice. But I am so grateful that I can still feel his arm around my neck, holding on tight as a toddler as we made our way through the day. That I can see him frying tacos in the kitchen and setting off the fire alarm every single time. That our memories bring his energy alive, and for just that moment he is with us again.
I will always hold dear to my heart the memory of his parting message to me as I drove to Oakland, where unbeknownst to me he already lay lifeless; the window he opened from the other side to let me know he was okay. It's the lifeline I have held on to for the last fifteen years, and will continue to hold on to for the rest of my life. Knowing he was somewhere, that his spirit had survived and was moving on. I pray to something better, something fun and beautiful and worthy.
But that anniversary is three days away. Tonight is another anniversary altogether, and I would be remiss not to mention it. Two years ago R called us together in this very room to say the Dr's had diagnosed Cal with leukemia. "Scariest family meeting ever", I told R earlier this evening as we reminisced. It has changed us all I think, but there being no control group I couldn't tell you how. He is two years into treatment, with hopefully just another six months or so to go. They have been through so much with him; hospital stays, IV's, daily meds, a port in his chest for easy access for chemo treatments, and the scariest for me, the lumbar punctures. It's all such a part of our everyday lives, it's hard to imagine going 'back to normal'. Of course, there is still the pandemic, so things won't change drastically right away, but our lives will be different again.
There is a lot of love in this house, and I am grateful everyday for that. And I know that no matter what life brings, we will carry on. And for me, right now, that means one more Bright night. One night closer to me being a better person so I can show up, instead of just hanging out in the shadows of my own life.
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