For the past couple of weeks I have felt an (even more) oppressive grief. Why now? Over and over I replay those final days in the hospital--did I act too soon? Could I have waited, and perhaps he would have been able to come home? I asked the doctor directly to tell me if I was wrong, to tell me if she thought I was jumping the gun. I couldn't consult with Philip; I couldn't ask him what I should do. All I could do was to believe in myself, believe that Philip was clear about his wishes and that he was ready, believe the doctor when she said the antibiotics weren't working and that he was not going to get better. But still. Could we have had more time?
The Therapist says this is a form of bargaining as well as a sort of survivor guilt. He also said it's normal, which makes me feel marginally better. He said it's my way of (somewhat masochistically) keeping him alive and with me. I don't think I would have thought about the bargaining part, but it makes sense. I do want to keep him alive; but the thought that I actually hastened his death horrifies me. The Therapist assured me that I did the right thing--I made the only possible decision under the circumstances. My head knows this. My heart is a little behind the curve.
Why now? I feel as though I'm regressing. He says this, too, is pretty normal. If I've learned anything, it's that grief comes in waves, not in "stages." He surprised me by suggesting that this might be happening to me now because The Therapist is going on vacation for a couple of weeks, and it's entirely possible that I am, at some level, reacting to that; another interesting possibility that I'm willing to consider. I confide in very few people, and The Therapist is the only one I've really opened up to. My reptilian brain may be reacting to this short lived "abandonment." Meanwhile, I'm exhausted and two seconds away from crying most of the time.
On the good news front, I'm going to Waters Edge in Connecticut in June for a week. My first solo vacation, and I'm hoping it will be relaxing and restorative.
Monday, March 28, 2011
Wednesday, March 9, 2011
Vindicated!
Conventional wisdom holds that humans are social creatures; we need relationships, connections to other people, and associations with groups in order to live fully. Those of us who prefer time alone generate skepticism and suspicion. We're considered eccentric, or depressed, or alientated or lonely.
Finally there's evidence to support my proclivity toward solitude. The Boston Globe ran a story last Sunday about some important studies, including one from Harvard, that suggest solitude may actually be good for us. Apparently we do all sorts of things better when we take enough time alone. Hey--I could have told them that, and probably a lot quicker and cheaper. Things like creativity, memory, focus, imagination, empathy, and--get this--improved social relationships are all improved when we spend enough time alone.
I don't dispute for a minute that bonding relationships are important early in life. Children who don't form close relationships have problems later on. But for adults, even teens, these studies suggest that blocking off enough alone time makes everything work better.
This seems elementary to me. But I know lots of people who are almost never alone, usually on purpose. I've never quite understood people who schedule something every spare minute, or who make sure that every weekend is full of social plans, or who sleep with anyone they can find just so they don't have to be alone. For me, the priority always is: will I have enough time to go home and be by myself if I accept this invitation?
The Therapist has suggested several times that I try to schedule some things with friends that would be fun. It's hard to explain to people that most of the time what I honestly look forward to after work and on weekends is some time to myself. I don't think I'm misanthropic, and this Globe article vindicates me.
I do have friends. But I don't "collect" friends the way other people seem to. The ones I have, and the ones I keep, are few but precious. Most of them have stood the test of time and even distance. I guess I don't need a lot of friends, I just need good ones.
When Philip moved to Massachusetts, I panicked a little bit. Another human in my home? I'd gotten used to my solitary ways. Luckily, he understood. And, of course, over time we could happily be alone together. I think it was different with him. We did everything together, we enjoyed just being alone together. He used to say he didn't need any more friends because he had me. We kind of shared our solitude, our alone time.
So that may be why I'm comfortable spending most of my non-work time alone; it's not that different from my life before. As I said, I have friends who have to carefully schedule the times we get together, and basically squeeze me in, because they have scheduled every time slot and have none to spare. Frankly, that would drive me nuts.
According to the studies, even our memories are more robust, more lasting and more accurate when we spend enough time alone. When I'm by myself I can summon memories both good and bad and process them; I love the silence, the feeling that this time is mine and I can do my best thinking. We even do a better job on tasks when we're doing them alone, due to a phenomenon known as "social loafing." In short, if we know there's someone else doing the same task, we don't try as hard.
I love this. I have proof that I'm not alienated or suspect or somehow defective. I'm just doing what the psychology community is now saying we should all be doing: recharging my batteries, taking a breather, and in the process becoming a better social animal.
Finally there's evidence to support my proclivity toward solitude. The Boston Globe ran a story last Sunday about some important studies, including one from Harvard, that suggest solitude may actually be good for us. Apparently we do all sorts of things better when we take enough time alone. Hey--I could have told them that, and probably a lot quicker and cheaper. Things like creativity, memory, focus, imagination, empathy, and--get this--improved social relationships are all improved when we spend enough time alone.
I don't dispute for a minute that bonding relationships are important early in life. Children who don't form close relationships have problems later on. But for adults, even teens, these studies suggest that blocking off enough alone time makes everything work better.
This seems elementary to me. But I know lots of people who are almost never alone, usually on purpose. I've never quite understood people who schedule something every spare minute, or who make sure that every weekend is full of social plans, or who sleep with anyone they can find just so they don't have to be alone. For me, the priority always is: will I have enough time to go home and be by myself if I accept this invitation?
The Therapist has suggested several times that I try to schedule some things with friends that would be fun. It's hard to explain to people that most of the time what I honestly look forward to after work and on weekends is some time to myself. I don't think I'm misanthropic, and this Globe article vindicates me.
I do have friends. But I don't "collect" friends the way other people seem to. The ones I have, and the ones I keep, are few but precious. Most of them have stood the test of time and even distance. I guess I don't need a lot of friends, I just need good ones.
When Philip moved to Massachusetts, I panicked a little bit. Another human in my home? I'd gotten used to my solitary ways. Luckily, he understood. And, of course, over time we could happily be alone together. I think it was different with him. We did everything together, we enjoyed just being alone together. He used to say he didn't need any more friends because he had me. We kind of shared our solitude, our alone time.
So that may be why I'm comfortable spending most of my non-work time alone; it's not that different from my life before. As I said, I have friends who have to carefully schedule the times we get together, and basically squeeze me in, because they have scheduled every time slot and have none to spare. Frankly, that would drive me nuts.
According to the studies, even our memories are more robust, more lasting and more accurate when we spend enough time alone. When I'm by myself I can summon memories both good and bad and process them; I love the silence, the feeling that this time is mine and I can do my best thinking. We even do a better job on tasks when we're doing them alone, due to a phenomenon known as "social loafing." In short, if we know there's someone else doing the same task, we don't try as hard.
I love this. I have proof that I'm not alienated or suspect or somehow defective. I'm just doing what the psychology community is now saying we should all be doing: recharging my batteries, taking a breather, and in the process becoming a better social animal.
Wednesday, March 2, 2011
Back to our regularly scheduled life...
That vacation frame of mind is way too quick to disappear. Now that I remember how nice it is to get away both mentally and physically, I must do it more often.
The Therapist keeps trying to impress upon me that opening myself up to people who care about me will make me feel more connected and less emotionally adrift. And yet I persist in keeping my emotions in check, in maintaining the best facade of normalcy that I can. Honestly? I've been this way for most of my life; I've always found it somewhat embarrassing to show my emotions in public. Where this came from, I have no idea--certainly not from my parents. I can come up with lots of reasons (excuses?), many of which might actually be true. I also know that it mostly boils down to fear. I am trying my best to keep my equilibrium and I don't want to do anything that might disrupt my carefully constructed balance. Something like not looking directly into the sun.
Sometimes the full weight of what has happened to me hits me, and it's scary. I hate looking weak, so I try very hard to always be "fine." Reminds me of what Gil used to say when he asked me how I was doing, and I said, "fine." Fine: fucked up, insecure, neurotic and emotional. That about says it all. And besides, I'm not really that sure other people want to hear about it. It must get boring after a while. And I sure as hell don't want to give my mother something else to worry about.
I've come through two pretty huge, life changing traumas and I think it's fair to say that I've been pretty resilient, at least I hope so. If I'm insulating myself as a protective measure, so be it.
I need more vacation!
The Therapist keeps trying to impress upon me that opening myself up to people who care about me will make me feel more connected and less emotionally adrift. And yet I persist in keeping my emotions in check, in maintaining the best facade of normalcy that I can. Honestly? I've been this way for most of my life; I've always found it somewhat embarrassing to show my emotions in public. Where this came from, I have no idea--certainly not from my parents. I can come up with lots of reasons (excuses?), many of which might actually be true. I also know that it mostly boils down to fear. I am trying my best to keep my equilibrium and I don't want to do anything that might disrupt my carefully constructed balance. Something like not looking directly into the sun.
Sometimes the full weight of what has happened to me hits me, and it's scary. I hate looking weak, so I try very hard to always be "fine." Reminds me of what Gil used to say when he asked me how I was doing, and I said, "fine." Fine: fucked up, insecure, neurotic and emotional. That about says it all. And besides, I'm not really that sure other people want to hear about it. It must get boring after a while. And I sure as hell don't want to give my mother something else to worry about.
I've come through two pretty huge, life changing traumas and I think it's fair to say that I've been pretty resilient, at least I hope so. If I'm insulating myself as a protective measure, so be it.
I need more vacation!
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