July 13, 2019
There has been a bit of emotional turmoil this week since I had the death experience. It is times such as this, when I wish I had someone to talk to. It occurred to me when I went for my run that I was witness to my father’s death as well as his burial. I had to stop because I was overcome by the emotion attached to this thought.
What inspired this idea I believe was the sharp pain I felt Friday afternoon while I was sitting in the hammock. It hit me in the right lung, knocking me over and taking my breath away for a few seconds. As is usual for an experience such as this, I became very tired. I understood this was a precursor to an emotional experience, probably one I wouldn’t want, but these things cannot be stopped. To receive these pains twice in one week, after so long without, I realize I am going through another growth period.
I wanted more than anything to have a quiet night, go to sleep early, thinking perhaps I would have another important dream. I have been having trouble eating these last few days, feeling full after a few bites, or feeling a bit sick, so I have not gone for my meal. Being alone, quiet seems important. I am at a loss to truly describe the depth of quietness I feel. It’s as though my very soul has gone silent and needs rest from the memory of the other night. I am struggling to identify my feelings, give them dimension and understanding.
Unfortunately there is a graduation party here, arriving Friday night with all the excitement that is required for such an event. The rooms are full, the music loud and their emotions are running high as they should be. I could tolerate most of it, the yelling, loud music and comings and goings (headphones are a godsend). The banging on the walls and slamming the doors, not really. The loud and sudden bangs always bring me back to the car when the shot was fired killing my surrogate father. This is not a place I enjoy being, and the continual sudden interruptions put me in a terrible state.
Yesterday morning while I sat outside having a coffee, I tried to hate them for what they did to me, but when I saw them walking back and forth across the yard, I realized they were not to blame for my inability to deal with this trigger. Saturday became a difficult morning because they brought back Tina, the pig – apparently she would be dinner today. Her squeals, her fear tore at me forcing me to retreat into my room with headphones on and hands pressed over my ears. But I could not escape the sound, again triggering me, but I cannot connect the sound of her screams with any of my memories at this point. So tired as I was, I got dressed for a run and left as soon as I could, unable to deal with any more.
I was unable to run my usual distance, my body was not strong after too many days of not eating properly, so I stopped to walk for a bit. It is difficult to ignore the memories when they are brought back with such force, so rather than fight to push them away I allowed myself to fall apart on the side of the road. It was at this point I realized it was a possibility I witnessed or at least felt my father’s death. I also understood the purpose behind the bursts of anger lately, which was a very important realization. I have not given much thought to many aspects of my life, even after remembering the stories in my book. It was almost robotic to just remember without feeling what happened, the emotions separate from actually feeling what I must have gone through. When I was 6 years old I was living through everything that I tried for years to forget. The anger felt while I was going through so many difficult experiences, forced into the closet with the memories. Only the fear remained. Being given the choice to die at this age must have been tempting, but what bothers me is that now I would probably say yes if I was given this choice again. It felt so good to be in that quiet, dark heaviness without fear or pain, just peace. Life seems to be something I do not know how to deal with, but I do understand the value of deep peace.
As I stood there I saw myself fighting back, not with anger, but with force behind my words as I explained to these students what happened, hoping for their understanding. I saw a reason for my story being told, but is it enough and would it matter to them? I spent the rest of the day and night until I was able to fall asleep, observing all that was going on around me. I came to the conclusion they would probably not care, happy in their ignorance of their history which I can also see becoming their future once more. As far away from the message of Che Guevara as they can get, the unbelievability of its possibility stronger than their desire to truly understand what he gave his life for. They are content to hide in the luxuries which they perceive as important, because it represents the possibility of having the much sought after North American lifestyle. Is his dedication and commitment dying with the aging population who were witness to his fight? The possibility of this idea is why I believed my story was important – to once again raise his spirit, reminding us all that we deserve to live in freedom; no longer constrained by those he fought against, who have been in power for far too long.
Each day I hope for the answers to come, give purpose to all I went through, it’s message heard and understood.
0 Comments