Learning to Live Again
I've taken a long time off from my writing -- a long time.
Far too long.
Six years ago, my mother was diagnosed with inoperable lung cancer. She was given a death sentence: 1 year. And my world crashed.
But my mother was strong and refused to comply with the doctors' statistics. She fought for her life for the next 5 years -- and I died a little more each day. I stopped taking care of myself; I stopped dating; I stopped writing. I stopped caring. I shuffled through this mortal coil. That was the best that I could do. A few well-placed oozing sores and I could have starred in any Romero movie. I was a self-made zombie.
A year and a half ago, when my brother was also diagnosed with lung cancer, what little spark of humanity and life still remained in me was snuffed out. I was hollow, anesthetized, horrified as I watched the two people who had meant the most to me as a child in a macabre race to the grave.
It took only a few short months, and the entire time, I barely functioned. Even when I was laid off from work, I couldn't wrap my mind around it. A single mother, the sole support of a family of three, but I couldn't seem to care. What difference did it make? My world was falling apart anyway. How could I think about a job while my family died? It didn't matter. I couldn't think about it. All I could do was survive each day.
My brother passed away on May 14th, 2009, at the ripe old age of 43. My mother, physically battered by her own illness and mentally shattered from the loss of her son, lost the will to fight and passed away exactly one month later on June 14th, 2009.
I'm not sure how I survived the next few months. I honestly don't remember. But somehow I did. I even managed to find a job -- 2400 miles away. So, with the fight or flight instinct of a jackrabbit, I ran. New job, new town, new state. A fresh start. Just what I needed.
It's been almost a year since then, another failed job, another failed attempt at life. But I have something I didn't have before. I have hope. I have survived the winter of my soul. There is a spring inside me, whispering me alive. I have a long way to go, but I may yet rise. A phoenix from the ashes, a crocus peeking through the snow.
I think feeling the need to start this blog is a sign of life. Writing is my soul. For the last six years, I could not bring myself to write. My soul was dead. Slowly, though, over the last year, I have begun to feel a tug, a desire to reconnect to the living. First Twitter, then Facebook. Limited, yes, but that's what I needed. The germinating seeds. But lately, I have found myself getting frustrated with Facebook and Twitter. Although I love having them and posting to them, I feel they are lacking any depth or breadth of meaning. Sometimes I don't want to limit myself to 140 characters.
My soul is growing. Some day I may even live again.
Far too long.
Six years ago, my mother was diagnosed with inoperable lung cancer. She was given a death sentence: 1 year. And my world crashed.
But my mother was strong and refused to comply with the doctors' statistics. She fought for her life for the next 5 years -- and I died a little more each day. I stopped taking care of myself; I stopped dating; I stopped writing. I stopped caring. I shuffled through this mortal coil. That was the best that I could do. A few well-placed oozing sores and I could have starred in any Romero movie. I was a self-made zombie.
A year and a half ago, when my brother was also diagnosed with lung cancer, what little spark of humanity and life still remained in me was snuffed out. I was hollow, anesthetized, horrified as I watched the two people who had meant the most to me as a child in a macabre race to the grave.
It took only a few short months, and the entire time, I barely functioned. Even when I was laid off from work, I couldn't wrap my mind around it. A single mother, the sole support of a family of three, but I couldn't seem to care. What difference did it make? My world was falling apart anyway. How could I think about a job while my family died? It didn't matter. I couldn't think about it. All I could do was survive each day.
My brother passed away on May 14th, 2009, at the ripe old age of 43. My mother, physically battered by her own illness and mentally shattered from the loss of her son, lost the will to fight and passed away exactly one month later on June 14th, 2009.
I'm not sure how I survived the next few months. I honestly don't remember. But somehow I did. I even managed to find a job -- 2400 miles away. So, with the fight or flight instinct of a jackrabbit, I ran. New job, new town, new state. A fresh start. Just what I needed.
It's been almost a year since then, another failed job, another failed attempt at life. But I have something I didn't have before. I have hope. I have survived the winter of my soul. There is a spring inside me, whispering me alive. I have a long way to go, but I may yet rise. A phoenix from the ashes, a crocus peeking through the snow.
I think feeling the need to start this blog is a sign of life. Writing is my soul. For the last six years, I could not bring myself to write. My soul was dead. Slowly, though, over the last year, I have begun to feel a tug, a desire to reconnect to the living. First Twitter, then Facebook. Limited, yes, but that's what I needed. The germinating seeds. But lately, I have found myself getting frustrated with Facebook and Twitter. Although I love having them and posting to them, I feel they are lacking any depth or breadth of meaning. Sometimes I don't want to limit myself to 140 characters.
My soul is growing. Some day I may even live again.
HI Tanya: Thanks for posting this heartfelt blog entry. I can't believe all you've been through in these past few years, losing two people who mean everything to you in within a short span of time. But like you've said, you made it through. Please keep up the writing. You were always such a great writer! Writing is one of the things that keeps me going, too.
ReplyDeleteLove, Sally