4. Distant

Distant

            Is “distant” really a feeling? Or is it a way to avoid feeling? I’ve often said that writing lets me get those feelings that bedevil or confuse me out of my head so I can make more sense of them. But am I also distancing myself from those feelings? Perhaps I'm being too hard on myself. If I can only identify my feelings by writing them down, isn’t making them somewhat distant a good thing for me?

            Distant is safer. Distant is useful. Distant is hiding. Distant is camouflage. Distant is protective. Distant is observant. Distant is watchful. Distant is spying on myself.

 

It’s NaNoWriMo Day 4. I will be writing about feelings, because that is what I have the hardest time articulating. One feeling a day.

3. Aggravated

Aggravated

            Was I merely aggravated when the laundry card didn’t work in one machine this evening? Or was I angry? What’s the difference? I yelled after the card gave me an error message when it worked in two other machines; I yelled, “Fuck!” That feels more like anger than aggravation. Aggravation is irritable, stronger than frustration, not as strong as anger. Anger is fire red; aggravation is a sickly maroon; frustration is a brownish green. Aggravation gnaws, it lingers, itching intermittently in hard to reach places. Aggravation kvetches, it complains in low tones repeatedly. Aggravation wants you to know there’s something wrong, you’d better fix it or else. 

It’s NaNoWriMo Day 3. I will be writing about feelings, because that is what I have the hardest time articulating. One feeling a day. 

 

2. Grief

Grief

            Loss, the never having again, never seeing, never hearing, never knowing, never, never, never, never, gone forever in material form, losing the connection, losing the “other.”

            Grief becomes common as I age. More people slip out of life at later ages and come holes in the world. I need to learn to accept loss as inevitable, as part of life as I go on living past the lives of others.

            Grief is a hollowness that never gets filled. It does not close; closure is a cliché that doesn’t warm. Grief is its own homecoming. It comes for all of us and takes different communal forms. I keep being drawn to abstraction, to reporting someone else’s experience, someone else’s feelings. The feeling inside is too chaotic. The language of closure implies a set way of feeling, a schedule to be followed. If you don’t follow the schedule you have fallen too far into grief. You have allowed grief to control you, you have lost control of your feelings, of yourself.

            Death is the ultimate loss of control, “you” are no longer here, only your body, cold, motionless, stiffening. The death of someone I love, or I have known for a long time, or a member of my nuclear family is the notice that I can happen to me. Perhaps I am next in line. The moment of my death is a mystery. Another loss of control.

It’s NaNoWriMo Day 2. I will be writing about feelings, because that is what I have the hardest time articulating. One feeling a day.

Calm

It’s NaNoWriMo Day 1. I will be writing about feelings, because that is what I have the hardest time articulating. One feeling a day.

 

Calm

            A coworker once told me that I always seemed so calm, even though I had an extremely stressful job. I was perplexed. I did not feel at all calm. I often cried in the shower before I went to work. Why didn’t that show, in my demeanor, in my behavior?

            What is calm? Quietness. A sunny day. A smile or a facial expression that looks attentive. A low voice, not shouting. Relaxed limbs, hands folded loosely in the lap. Questions rather than commands.

            Is this how I appeared to my coworker? Did I intend to project this image? How I looked on the outside did not match what I felt on the inside. But I wasn’t always sure what to name how I felt.