Sadness creeps, like moss that didn’t seem to take the first few times, like care that got slapped back and is now shy and worried and confused. My sadness, my woe, stalls often, in my heart’s most balanced places, like an owl in dusk, a chuckle in solace.
I struggle letting people go. Not all of them; some of them slip easily from my life, just frozen gasps against a temperamental night sky. But these rare others…what is it? What is it about certain chemistries that react in raw, unmeasured bursts against my eager soul? What is it about certain fabrics of connection that refuse to sleep when their cloth has chafed and scraped and worn bloody my ability to cope? That will not let the ravaged remains of my care heal enough to weather the next investment?
Carrie Fisher passed away today. I grew up with her. She was my first and favorite Thumbelina. She was a voice in the dark of madness, an unrelenting snark at the wall of frustration that stifles so many. And I can’t do this loss on top of the sneaking sadness of my old one, my friend one, my one that won’t come back because it never was. I can’t do it. It’s all the same, now, a pin-wheeling loss that somersaults across my weeks and months, just so it can land in an inconvenient heap on my current mound of hard-won function.
I am sad over the losses that have happened even just today.
But the truth is that I was sad starting yesterday, starting months ago. And it isn’t gone; that burden still has roots and sprouts and it is fighting my passage. I am struggling to retire that loss. I am tired of accepting it, over and over again. I want a hallway of sadness that is not haunted by it. I want respite.