Itchy and Scratchy

I wish I had something profound to say. Something insightful and deep that inspired you today, or maybe just me. But I am exhausted. Soul exhausted. Body weary.

I wish I could always hold on to that sweet feeling of contentment that comes with optimism and insight, but the truth is the good parts of growth and wisdom come in small, slippery spurts. Last week's awareness was incredible, but it is now gone. I mean, I have integrated the lesson, but have gone back to sleepless discontent. There is a constant cycle of mourning here. Mourning my insights, my steps forward. My Buddhist therapist once said to me, "So you are mourning the loss of your daughter and your enlightenment?" Something like that.

I had violent dreams last night. With blood and torn limbs. With vomit and disease. I don't understand it, really, because I avoid movies, even, with that sort of visual. I hate the genre horror. I cover my eyes. Protect my sleep. And still they come, like a surrealist painting, rife with symbolism I don't understand about a world in which I do not live. Last night, my dream included a dead priest hanging off of the 70s brown refrigerator I grew up with. He was stabbed and damaged. He was found by my daughter, who stood staring at him. I could feel the trauma changing her brain and I covered her eyes and stared at him myself. Taking in his injuries and the anger around his death. Not my anger, but someone's anger. Then I woke, unable to banish the mental image and conversely, unable to sleep again.

My children surrounded me in bed, or close enough to feel like bed, the husband working the overnight shift. I was determined not to watch television all night, so I stayed in bed with my blackberry, checking every few minutes that my children were still breathing. (Hell, I was awake, might as well make myself useful.) I finished my saved crossword puzzles, then on my blackberry, I read the internet. All of it. Then, I finished my book, which was quite good except for the violent bits and the existence of elves, which somehow always makes me feel like I am not taking this life seriously enough. I should somehow muster reading parenting books, or Hegel, for the love of God. I should be a fucking adult at some point. But maybe it is reading philosophy so young, I can only really connect with magical stories.

The internet is sparse right now. Well, our corner of it. Everyone seems to mention they are reading, but not commenting, and I certainly am doing the same. I just feel out of words. I am hot. I am tired. I am hungry. (Still eliminating, people.) Everything I write makes me feel and sound like a douche bag. I chat with friends and feel like a douche. I write a comment and feel like a douche. I think you get to the point in your grief where you have felt and read lots of the intricacies of grief. You have been in lots of scenarios talking about your dead baby. You just have been doing this for what feels like forever. I have been doing this grief thing for 19 months (actually today, who knew?!), after all. And I have been in Bloglandia for 17 months, and I have commented a lot, and I have three blogs, so I get comments. I just don't want to comment on someone's blog and have them think I have any idea what it is like for them. I hate being dismissed as feeling like everyone else. And I hate being dismissed as someone with fringe feelings. Thus, I feel impotent. Sometimes I still feel like the best thing to do is say, "I am here, listening. You are not alone. You are not crazy. I love you." I don't always have the energy to write even that. There is sometimes nothing to say, and so I say nothing. And then, also, feel like a douche.

Perhaps this is simply my season of being a douche bag.

Grief settles on you like scratchy skin. I have experience with eczema these days, so bear with me. Having raw rough patches of skin that itch constantly. You itch and scratch. Itch and scratch. And people stare at those patches and wonder why you don't just go to the damn doctor and get some ointment, not really realizing that this itchy, sore spot is being treated. It looked worse. Seriously. And then at some point, you annoy yourself by constantly saying, "I'm itchy. I need to scratch." It is just there, and you might flail all night, or rub your body against your sheets and somehow, it is still there. Just angrier. Redder. More inflamed. Some days, you notice yourself scratching, and other days, you just unself-consciously scratch. And some times you get to some zen place where you promise yourself to, or maybe even, stop scratching. And then one night you wake up with your spot bleeding and you realize that you scratched it in your sleep anyway.

Or something like that. Even that sounded douche-y to me.

All I can say is that I am still here. Wilted and itchy. Hungry and grumpy. Still listening. Still reading. Trying to comment. Feeling impotent.

If anyone knows what violent dreams mean, you can share that with me. Though I am slightly afraid it means I am deranged.