In Touch With Feelings? Texts from my Inner Self

On a recent afternoon, busy and content, I glanced out the window and saw that the sky had darkened. I thought, “Wow, it’s about to start sobbing.” Sobbing and not raining.  I wasn’t feeling like crying myself, not that I was aware of. Yet I had to wonder: Is this how I’m in touch with feelings that are hiding from me?

Day to day, I feel fine, almost all the time. But twenty months into 24/7 care for my beloved ailing husband Bob, there are certainly big reasons for sadness.

The Little Typist Within

I picture a tiny version of myself deep inside me sitting at a laptop, texting me verbal messages about distress I’m not acknowledging.

The sobbing rain is not the only such “text” I’ve received. For much of my life, I’ve had a peculiar habit of thinking or involuntarily repeating aloud a particular phrase, one of which could dominate for years. The first one I recall was a feeling I hid from myself not only by lack of full conscious awareness, but by putting it in another language: j’ai peur. In French, I have fear, I am afraid: j’ai peur j’ai peur j’ai peur. That one went away long ago.

Tourettes-y Blurtings

I call these repeatings “my tourettes-y blurtings,” phrases that I say without meaning to, either when I’m alone or alone with Bob. Lately two have dominated. One is “I’m so tired.” The other: “I’m sad.” These two only come out when I’m by myself. But most of the time, I’m not tired and not sad. Maybe I’m doing myself a favor by avoiding the full force of sadness. Or maybe it’s somehow a damaging loss. I don’t know.

I was in surprisingly high energy for more than a year of this twenty months. And in this period, Bob moved from walker to wheelchair, so there was reason for grief. I didn’t feel it.

The Danger of Taking a Break

Then months later, this past March, I seemed to arrive at a slightly lower state of mind and body. Paradoxically, it happened after I’d had a sort of break. Bob had been in the hospital and rehab for a total of thirteen nights. I stayed there with him, day and night.

For me, those two weeks were a rest. A medical staff was taking care of him and having the room service “guest tray” meals was wonderful. I slept very well. That changed when we got back home. Sleep again became my biggest challenge.

Hyper-alertness

Apparently I’m unconsciously listening for him, for his needing me, at all times. At home, I was immediately back to insomnia and felt the effects of it more than before. I thought I’d get over this slow-down and return to the top energy that had carried me for so long. But I haven’t. I’ve stayed a little bit slowed, which led me to hire some caretaking help. I now have all the assistance I need. Even so, I’m a little bit slower….

And the Dying Tree

A striking moment: I planted a little larch tree years ago and in the heat of recent summers  it has been dying in pieces. Every year, I pruned all the prickly dead branches. Then this past spring, I simply cut the whole thing down. I said to Bob afterwards, “I was tired of watching that thing die.” He said, “You’re watching me die.”  A real punch in the sternum, that comment! And from a guy who stays in remarkably good spirits almost all the time. Death watch is not how I think about our good life together. Bob is still Bob and I think he will keep on living for a good while and I’m doing everything I can to make that so.

Stuff That Doesn’t Matter as Much

I’m uncharacteristically cutting myself some slack: for being more forgetful, more prone to breaking a glass or spilling something, more prone to making mistakes. Just noted that I’d sent out a significant email with my name misspelled: Paynw. Didn’t berate myself a bit.

Am interested to see what the next text from my inner self will be.

Peggy

 

 

 

 

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Tags: 24/7 care, blurting, caretaking help, death watch, feel like crying, full conscioius awareness, full force of sadness, inner self, involuntarily repeating, keep on living, more forgetful, more prone to making mistakes, needing me, reason for grief, start sobbing, tourettes, walker to wheelchair