a pennys worth pt. 2

It's been two years today since Lucian died and a little over six months since I wrote about it.

Finishing "A Penny's Worth" was a lesson in itself. In the process, I was expecting to feel like I'd broken through some kind of wall. Or at least monumentally different, that my own writing would provide an answer to a question I wasn't sure of. I at least hoped for a sense of conclusion.
What I felt instead was that I was the same person with the same experiences with the same troubles. I had simply organized them and tided up these elements. The best way to convey it would be to compare it to a bookshelf. Beforehand, it had been cluttered, books stacked randomly, some stuffed in sideways, maybe some random papers or coffee mugs. Writing about Lucian has put it in order; it's all the same books, but now they are organized, spines lined up so you can easily pick through them and remember everything they have said.

And just because I've written it doesn't mean I feel any less anxious or confused by Lucian's death. I have to constantly remind myself of the yarn, the knots, the pennies. It's like I'm always working to catch up with my own well-being. I can expect to feel happiness only momentarily. Similar to the act of writing the memoir, it was not as if I had moved completely forward, never to slide back and revisit these emotions. I've gone through maybe month long periods of simple joy in and of itself and I've gone through periods of having to put all of my will power into convincing myself it is not all hopeless repeatedly in one day.

And I've pulled myself out of it before. Even on days when I really do not want to feel happy, telling myself any thing I do will only be a veiled distraction from "the Truth". Who knows what that is, but I do know I don't want it to be able to seep into my bones and smother my ability to enjoy myself.

Over time, I've stocked arsenals and created escape plans for days like these. Though I believe in letting myself feel what I feel, good or bad, to their full extent, I know I often have to take direct initiative to eventually find my way back out. One specific example would be writing lists, which I sometimes title "RX: Happiness" or "RX: Get Over It". They include tasks, hobbies, people to talk to and goals to accomplish. They don't always "cure" my directly but often help get me back on track to feeling okay. I remember the first one I wrote the summer after Lucian died and it included "Stop drinking coffee and stop reading Ernest Hemingway". My most recent was written two days ago over a breakfast I forced myself to eat but had no appetite for. The list is still in my backpack and suggests that I "sew button back on dress," "pet the cat," and "don't sit in bedroom too much."

I remember, for maybe a year after Lucian died, my efforts to squander this darkness (and somehow cheat death, I had secretly hoped) was feverish. If each moment was not filled with a "productive" activity or thought, I could feel the anxiety creeping up behind me. I carried my knitting, a book to read and for more social situations, a deck of cards, everywhere I went. I would often leave cafes, friends' houses or other get-togethers because it wasn't "fulfilling" enough. At home, I would continue knitting or sewing or listening to talk radio, isolated in my nervous elitism.

During the fall semester after Lucian's death, there was a week where my left eye twitched continuously. I never gave my eyes a rest because I was constantly reading or writing or knitting or sewing. Even walking to class or do errands had to be filled with music or phone calls to check in. I had to gather knowledge and accomplishments around me, attempting to find shelter in them.

But I wasn't necessarily any unhappier than I am now, about a year since I pushed myself so hard. I don't really think of periods of my life as completely happier or sadder than other parts. It's measured more in my awareness and grasp on my own well-being, how successfully I can force myself out of bed and eat breakfast on some mornings. The last few months it seems the feverishness has flipped, focusing my efforts towards relaxation and satisfaction in small, seemingly insubstantial moments. Who cares if I stay in Saturday night to joke with my housemates, lingering at the table long after dinner only getting up to refill our cups of tea. It doesn't matter if I "learned" or "created" anything because I was feeling something, simply happy. A few months ago, for example, I had a few friends, Bettina, Zach and Shelby, over for dinner. As we stood around the sink washing our dishes I said matter-of-factly that I wanted to go on an adventure. We threw around some ideas but in the end we didn't get farther than the corner store to buy sweets. We all walked Zach back to his house and as we were saying goodbye I apologized that our hopes for the night had not happened. He took a bite from his doughnut and waved away my apology with one hand. "I had a good time, anyways. I mean, it's nice hanging out with you guys no matter what we do."

Yesterday afternoon I listened to the radio show "This American Life" as I knitted a hat for my housemate. The episode, titled "How to Rest in Peace", is about how people have dealt and still deal with the loss of parents to murder and suicide. The first segment focused on a man named Jason Minter, who, at six years old, heard his mother and her friend being shot to death by robbers in an adjacent room. Throughout his life, he grew more and more obsessed with his mother's death. As a child, he worried about security and built weapons and traps. After studying Film in college he decided to make a documentary about his mother's death. He visited the crime scene, talked to police and even one of the accomplices of the murder trying to learn all the details. When the interviewer asked Jason what his hopes were for completing the documentary, he replied, "My hope is to cease to obsess over that day. You know, I hope to not think about the murder twenty-six times a day, maybe once a day or once every two days." He then changed his mind a little, reflecting that, "I wonder if I should intensely focus on my mother and, not forget about the crime obviously, but try to stay away from that as much as possible mentally and not make the rest of the [documentary]. [I] never really thought of [my] mother as a real person, she's been this event, or this horrible thing that happened to [me]. Not that she was a horrible thing, but she was a victim of this horrible thing, which has in some ways defined my life."

Yes, I am still the same person with the same experiences and the same troubles. I have most of the same hobbies, such as knitting and sewing and reading and writing, but like Jason, I have realized the importance of how I approach these activities. If they are done out of fear, because I am running away from something, I have failed in my attempt to escape that thing since it has such power over my daily life. Instead I should focus on Lucian and his life and what that has taught me. I should live each moment of my life, not because it will get me somewhere or teach me something, but because it is something that will make me happy in that moment for whatever reason.

Yes, I still think of Lucian whenever I see pennies around. I don't pick them up nearly as often, though.




POSTSCRIPT: Now here I am, having finished writing even more on the subject only moments ago and, like I said in the beginning, I now feel a little lost because I am the same person sitting in the same chair at the same desk with the same experiences and the same troubles. I've realized that I am grateful at least that I was consumed by this feeling to write and write and write for hours. While I was writing I didn't feel the anxiety or the uselessness but could feel all of my thoughts fall neatly into place and pour out of the tip of my pen.
And here I go again, to repeat the process over and over again.