Apathy

I’ve been angry, apathetic and raw. I’ve got a chip on my shoulder the size of Texas, and the best I can give anyone involves little more than a shrug of my shoulders and a look of, “Well, what do you expect?” People see what I write, see me looking and acting differently I guess, and say, “You seem to be doing so much better.” What else are they supposed to say, right? If you call getting more comfortable in dealing with nightmares and putting a good face out there getting better, then yeah, I am. People see Facebook stuff and think they know you or know exactly where you are. There’s a reason it’s called “Face”book and not “Soul”book. This is no linear growth process, and right now, I am in a funk to end all funks. People read a post that’s positive and go, “Must be doing great today!” I struggle every day to try and stay positive. And sometimes that vibe I am putting out there is nothing more than an effort to fake it until I make it. I’m just trying not to do something that will lead to a deeper and darker hole.

I don’t care about much right now. I am passionate about absolutely nothing aside of my training and music. Traveling is a great escape as it gives me new experiences with new people, but eventually I have to come back to earth. It hasn’t done me much good to focus on the book, as Sean hasn’t been actively involved with it at all in such a long time.  It has done nothing but disappoint me and add to my anxiety. I have dived into my spirituality and used this whole thing as an opportunity for growth, yet here I am dealing with a very human experience. I am not the Dalai Lama, nor Jesus Christ, and as much as I try turn things over, my brain won’t allow me to do it completely. The fact is that I have to find my own way to cope with something that absolutely no one can understand, as much as they might try. Sometimes it’s actually dealing with people trying to relate to me that causes more pain than anything else.  “Oh, I know how you feel,” they might say. No, I’m sorry, you don’t. I really wish they would stop saying that; or even thinking it for that matter. There is nothing anyone can say, no advice anyone can offer, and no hugs or affection that can make a dent in this any more than I know what it’s like for anyone else. I don’t try to pretend that I know what anyone else is going through. Then why the hell would you try to figure me out?

When a friend of a friend recently suggested that the pain from his divorce was unbearable to him, I said, “Not even the same ballpark, dude. I’ve been through one of those and it ripped my heart out. But this versus a divorce? Wow. Not even close.” I thought to myself, does he have his ex-wife’s baby pictures and her ashes in a box? But, of course, everyone’s view is “distorted” based on their perspective. And to me that’s ok. It is what it is. I just have to find my way through. I’m a realist, and it’s my cross to bear.  So I’m done seeking approval or advice from others, except from a few, very close confidants. Am I dealing with some self pity here? Yes! Of course. This whole deal is bullshit. What would you think? I didn’t do anything to end up where I am right now. I worked my ass off to get where I was and here I am left with nuclear fallout. Shani was murdered.  That’s what I’m left with.

Right now, I’m not all that concerned with how I come off to anyone. You know what it is? I can see very clearly who I am, how much I lost, how I lost it and how this loss affects me from dealing with the grief, PTSD and natural responses to the realization that the remains of my wife are in a box in my living room. I may improve on how I deal with things, but the visions and nightmares have decided to come back in full force and even stronger and more vivid than ever before. I can be having a discussion with 5 people and suddenly a breeze blows through engulfing me momentarily in a cocoon of shock where I then bring myself back to the present and fake it through the rest of the conversation. It’s quite lovely to get a picture of your wife screaming and suffering while tailgating at a football game. People think I’m “better,” and they expect me to be normal. Sorry. It still doesn’t always register in me, and I don’t know if it ever will. Acceptance, attachments and all of the spiritual philosophies can bite my ass right now. I have no desire for enlightenment and even if I did, it can come see me after I deal with the upcoming and inevitable trial which will bring its own beatings. Man, am I looking forward to that.

I saw my therapist on Wednesday. She cried a good bit during our session. I appreciate the fact that she does so, because it validates the fact that the pain I am feeling really is that intense. I told her that I’m here, you know? I’m alive, but not much else. I start to put myself back out into the world, and I just don’t like much of what I see. I see ignorance and hypocrisy. I see people not living up to their commitments and bullshitting everyone around them. I see murder and death, and I don’t want in on it. But I will continue to keep doing the next logical thing as it seems like I can’t go wrong there. I will begrudgingly show up to live every day, even if I’d rather not. But I am not enjoying life “fully.” Everything is bittersweet at best. As I move forward into seeing what it’s like for me to be out there alone, and who I am without her, I’ve come to realize that I liked myself better with her than I do now. As I told my therapist what I was missing and the little things that are now popping up all over the place as I venture back out, she simply said through tears, “There is absolutely nothing I can say here, except that I am very, very sorry for you, and for Shani. I can only imagine what it must be like to drag yourself out of bed and face the day, Michael. I can only feel for your loss, and I get that. I get that.” She then encouraged me to dive deeper into the “what I lost” category again and write more about it. So I did, and I understand completely my apathy toward life. I am putting myself out into the world and feel like half of me was murdered that day.

So in stream of consciousness form, this is what I came up with...

I lost my best friend and lover. I knew every wrinkle and freckle on her body. I knew everything there was to know about her except for just how much she really loved me. I knew what she liked and what she didn’t like. I knew what turned her on. She knew all of the same about me. I’ve never been more vulnerable in front of anyone, and I know she would have said the same of me. Every morning that I woke up before she did I would run my fingers over her ear, pulling the hair back from her face in the process. Shani made these amazing organic vegetarian soups. I can’t cook. She used to pick out all of the independent and foreign films from Netflix. She was the first person to get me to actually watch movies with subtitles. Now, I don’t know what to pick. I guess I don’t even want to have to do it. Shani and I communicated probably 20 times a day through text, e-mail, and phone calls. I knew when she got up from her desk to pee. Now I talk to her in my head. Shani shopped for me. She always liked to see me well dressed. I would get e-mails asking if I liked this shirt or these pants. Her morbid sense of humor. There was something funny to be found in every situation, no matter how “wrong” it might seem. I miss my nudist. I miss the hour long showers and her walking around the place for hours with nothing but a towel on her head. I miss the naked tribal performance otherwise known as the African Booty Dance. I miss my girly girl. I miss the lotions and body sprays. She always had the perfect jewelry. She loved her earrings and bracelets, and always had the necklace to match. She was class. She could go with a halter top and blue jeans, and she was “sexy classy.” The bedding. You always let the woman pick out the bedding, and Shani knew what to get. I miss the weekends passing a bowl between the two of us with the doors locked, only leaving bed to grab the Chinese food at the door and run the dog out a couple times a day. Sunday mornings fixing breakfast with the iPod jamming Thievery Corporation or Bob Marley. I miss her farting in yoga class and then not being able to stop laughing. I miss her. I miss my lover, my friend, and my rock. I miss my one and only partner in life.

I was 25 years old when we met. At 36 now, I don’t quite know how to live without her. My brain doesn’t process it. It’s a natural response for me to think about her throughout the day and want to call or text her. And then it’s like getting hit over the head by a brick named “reality,” which creates nothing but a quick jolt of shock. Do you ever really process the fact that the woman you thought you would spend the rest of your life with literally had her head blown off? That she sat in a car and stared at her son as he filled your car and your wife with bullets? That yeah, in reality, she probably did suffer. She didn’t just die; she got hit with 3 fatal shots out of 9. That as you picture these things and your logical thinking mind is saying, “This happened,” and your emotional self is breathless. It is felt all the way through to the soul. It is the kind of act that is so black it can only be called evil. I picture angels crying, as the entire universe experienced the darkness of the act on that day; the day that God let the unthinkable actually happen to her, to me. So please, don’t tell me you know how I feel or place judgment on me for going from spiritual to buried. I’m doing the best I can, and as of late that doesn’t go too far beyond breathing. I look out the window, and I don’t like what I see, but I’ll continue to venture out anyway.