The Day After the Year After

Monday was the anniversary of Steve's death. I did not take it well. I slept 18 hours. I sat and talked with Steve in the living room. Tears came out of nowhere. As far as I know, he's fine with all that's going on. He'd better be, because I'm ready to have him actively in the past.

Is there something valid in the scheduling of anniversaries? Is it more than just the calendar that punctuates this flow in annual repetition? Why does a full turn of seasons (for those of you who have them) somehow bring clarity and wisdom to evoking memories of things and people past?

Whatever.

Today (Tuesday) is better. I'm still feeling a behavioral paralysis, but I'm owning up to this pathological procrastination. It's been a whole year of adapting and adjusting to being alone. So, I'm inches from getting the house on the market; now just pick up the phone and make the calls. And nothing happens. But there is a clear feeling inside: I just don't want to talk on the phone right now. (Leave me alone.)

And yet I am so happy to hear from and see friends and family. I open up space for them just fine. But all those people who want things from me, who have requirements to meet, they can go screw themselves.

So the process plays out thusly:

I don't want to do this now, so I'll do it a little later, when I feel more like doing it. Then perhaps some sort of game on the computer. Get up and stretch and exercise the back. Grab something to drink. Check what's on TV. (With over 500 channels, that can be a black hole for empty behavior, not to mention Netflix streaming.) And I still just don't feel like it.

I know this behavior very well. It's an excellent way to spend the day and end it with the feeling that nothing has been accomplished. Part of me is ashamed, but it was wide awake while I was busy accomplishing nothing. 

If I avoid chopping up myself into parts, I realize that I spent the day screwing off, knowing what I had wanted to accomplish but full-aware that none of that was going to happen. And I know that I'm going to feel bad about myself tonight. 

Is that the payoff? Yeah; that's the payoff. I'm generating a world where I'm busy, nothing happens, and I feel weak and vulnerable and flawed. Really flawed. This last year has ground me down to the point where really flawed feels comfortable.

All this is a very twisted aspect of my grief process. It is a new incarnation of my agoraphobia. But this is the first day of my second year as a single person. I admire the intellectual processing, planning and performance I've done over the last year. I've gone from the first day, when I realized I really didn't belong here anymore (marrying Steve had been my Pasadena experience and it was over), to defining what I want in my life now.

I want family. I want new friends. I want a small city where I can get involved. I want seasons. I want a white Christmas. I want the time/space to create possibility in a new way. 

So I'm doing my best to make that happen, but all this old crap, these old modes, keep popping up—because they're familiar and I know while I'm busy doing them, I will spin my wheels and nothing will happen. Isn't that stupid? Couldn't I just say, "Hey, Mark, take a couple days off and enjoy yourself." I'd say that to anyone else in this situation. "Then hit the ground running when you get back to it."

But it is also the friendly cliff. I don't want to do any running. Step carefully, because once I make these few phone calls, once I sign just a few more papers, the sales process begins; no turning back, just free fall. 

Then all this gets very, very real: Yet another stress-inducing experience I have not had before, and I'm starting to really tire of stress-inducing experiences. Although once the house is sold and I have the equity sitting in the bank, I'm sure I'll feel on a lot more solid ground, feeling more like I'm ready to rock.

"And remember, when making a call, always put a smile in your voice."

—Bell Telephone educational film