Chaos Surrounds Me

a photo of abstract painting
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How I have loss control. By now, you know the story, my story. In nearly nine months, my husband dies, my mother dies and there’s a pandemic that keeps me in my house like the madwoman in the attic in Bronte’s Jane Eyre. At least the madwoman had Jane and Edward to eavesdrop on.

My daughter has been with me for about a week. She came in to comfort me, to comfort each other, when my mother died. She’ll be leaving tomorrow, back to working from her home, not mine. I am missing her already. Peter and I did raise our children to fly with their own wings and to the places they are comfortable. I have so much pride in watching their flight. Still, I will miss her. Hell, I miss all the once-was’s. I don’t want to control my children’s lives, but sometimes, I do want their youth back, my family back to how it once-was, the four of us. I know. It can’t happen. Nor can having Peter back to watch the soars of my children and that I do wish I could control that, but I have no control over any of it.

As they fly, and I watch them by myself, I see their pain, their fears and their uncertainty. I watch their own suffering, their spirits dampened from all of this – their father’s loss, their Busia’s death and the pandemic. They have had more put on them than most young people their age, and they can’t control the boulders placed on them, nor can I.  I can’t protect them from their feelings and their realities. I can’t hold them on my lap and rock them with coo’s of “it’ll be alright” like when they were young.  That’s the disadvantage of watching them fly away to their own life. I can be there for them, listen to them, try to be strong for them, and worry about them – I am a champion at the last one –  but I can’t fly with them. For it’s their lives have taken their own flight, without room for me. As it should be. As I want it to be.  And I can’t control their feelings, their fears, their grief during their own soar into this world. I can’t and it sucks.

I’ve been having dreams about Mumzy and Peter. They’ve been odd dreams with no messages or meanings. Most of them I forget other than they were in my dreams. Yesterday’s dream involved both of them sitting across a picnic bench from me, at the 4-H camp I attended for ten summers. We didn’t talk. We just sat and ate the bad camp food. When I woke up, I wanted there to be conversations or messages between us to write down to remember. But there were no conversations to remember. So, I went back to sleep in hopes of getting some type of exchange. Unfortunately, all I got was a dream of working at an office in a shopping center, with a scattering of people from my past, or from characters of the programs I’ve binged watched lately, and wearing my High School uniform skirt. Figure that one out, Dr. Freud. Damn, I wish I could control my dreams. It would be nice to maybe talk to Peter and Mumzy. But I can’t. I have no control over this.

I am trying to write during my isolation. It’s a perfect time. I have a lot of perfect time. Yet so far, I’ve corrected the opening two chapters of my book about three times. Oh, not rewritten, besides some name changes, just added in an extra comma, or removed one, and put in adjectives here and there. Nothing creative or inspiring has popped up. Compounded grief and boredom have zapped my muse and she’s pretty much lying on my carpet waiting for me to resurrect her. I tend to walk over her though. I can’t control the grief that has hit me in the past few days. I realized this morning how much I miss my mom, even the mom who told these dementia-based stories of three hump dragons and FBI agents waiting for their coffee that fascinated me to no end. I mean, JK Rowlands and or James Patterson could have gotten a lot of fodder out of Mumzy.  And in this grief, added onto the heaviness of the one I carry around from Peter still,  I am knocked down again by the added weight and move in a state of blah, a state of ‘here-I-go-again’ with nothing creative to spur me on. Some of you may think I can control it, but I can’t. I work on the steps to improve, but I can’t control the actual, compounded grief, nor should I.

I have lost control in my life. I am probably naive and egocentric to think I ever had any to begin with; I mean, any of the big stuff , like death and pandemics. I like control though. I like to be in charge in an attempt to keep my anxiety at bay. Don’t get me wrong. I’m not a control freak. Seeing my housekeeping skills or lack thereof would prove that. I don’t control to the point of anger or unresponsiveness to suggestions. My writer’s life is all about critiques, rejections and changes. But I do like control. I am sure most of us do one way or another. Some maybe more than others. Some it may border on an illness. But one way or another, most of like to have control.

A friend pointed out to me, the only control we have is how we deal what is given to us. I agree with that to a certain point. Sometimes, what has been given us is too damn heavy. I suppose it’s in those times, I need to feel my feels and realize I don’t have control over everything. In the meantime, during my massive chaos, I can work toward  better moments with patience and self-love for all of this too shall pass. I just need to give it time and time is not in my control. Damn it!