Long December: Another Post on the Month That Will Not End

I wasn't going to post tonight, but then I was all "What if my faithful readers really want to hear about trauma narrative and how it's grossly under appreciated in the high school classroom and that severely affects our interpretations of pieces like Elie Wiesel's Night and causes our students to think they understand events like the Holocaust when they actually only understand a gross misrepresentation of an event that can't be articulated?"

When I had that thought I just knew I needed to come and talk with you. 

I really appreciated your kind comments on my last post.  (Though, it would be nice if a few of you would attach email addresses to your accounts.  Normally, I would email you back if you comment on a post.)  The holidays are tough around here.  I told Favorite I feel selfish admitting that, because there are worse traumas taking place and I need to keep that in mind.  What he said reminded me of something I quoted in an earlier post:  "Your cancer doesn't fix my broken back."  I guess I forget that grieving is a process that everyone goes through, and it takes a different form for everyone.

There are just a lot of days when I wish this process was over.  Or, even better, nonexistent.  Thousands of women have walked in my shoes, but I find myself frustrated because my standard dictates that I'm not supposed to be here almost two years later.  I'm supposed to be moving on, in a different place, working through, insert your own "working-it-out" phrase here.  Instead, I do stupid things like look at birthday cakes made to mimic the book The Very Hungry Caterpillar and sing "Long December" and laugh at the part "maybe this year will be better than the last."

The narrative in my head sometimes convinces me that part of the healing process is knowing that the one stint wasn't it for us.  The logical side of my brain (which doesn't function often) says there is no reason to court hope when every sign points to the fact that my body is irreparably broken--there's a "feeling that it's all a lot of oysters, but no pearls."  And then there's just me--no logic, no narrative--that doesn't want optimism or pessimism.  I just want to accept what is and move it to the back of the closet.

I've come to admire the women in my life who do a lot of side-along support.  They're sneaky in their encouragement--popping up when you least expect them and turning the subject to something worthy of a belly laugh.  It's weird, but I don't hear "Let's have dinner" when they talk.  I hear "I haven't forgotten you."  While I'm in the process of shoving all of this junk to the back of the closet and praying for invisibility, there's something in me that just needs to be seen.  Not praised.  Not justified.  Not even comforted.  Just not cast away. 

Last Sunday, Pastor Josh talked about peace.  He pointed out that, as Christians, we are called to be a people of peace, but that can't happen if we can't find peace with God.  I've started to think that may be the theme of this holiday for me.  I'm not talking about finding peace with what has happened.  Instead, maybe I need to seek peace for what will never be.  But I'm trying to savor the lesson and trying "to tell myself to hold on to these moments as they pass."

Thanks for giving me an outlet to work through them.