Tuesday, December 18, 2012
My mind collection of lost dreams - part 1
As she knelt on the floor by the closet she leaned her face gently to the drawers. She could feel the cold of the wire baskets and smell his scent that was long gone, like his life. Like her own life. If she was to write a suicide note one day it would read:
"I'm so sorry.
I didn't get it"
Everyday was a chosen day to remain alive since he had left.
She had received so many advices the past years. She had a collection of stories full of advices. A little prayer bead bracelet that one friend had held when she lost her husband: "you don't need to believe or pray for anything, just hold on to it when you are desperate in sorrow". Saying goodbyes at the airport she got a golden chain with guardian angel medals:"it kept me alive when I was sad after losing my father". "The priest told me that it is not a sin, he was just ill, like someone that dies from a heart attack, but I'll pray for his soul". "A friend of a friend was really bad when his wife left him. A monk gave him a prayer and told him to pray for 6 months. I think the trick is the 6 months, not necessarily the prayer". The Buddhist prayer, with the book of dead, the sacred altar, the incense, the candles and at least 3 water glasses. It would take her 20 min to recite the prayer everyday. A friend would check on her from time to time and collect the money to make sure that her ancestors would take care of her. It was odd to have her son's name inscribed on the book of the dead among her ancestors that were long gone. "Are you going to see a doctor?" asked her daughter's therapist. "You should go to a support group". "I'm going to let you go from the job, because you need to be with family to heal". "Your surviving children need you". "Don't cry so much, please. You have to let it go". "He is in a better place now". "He joined the love of his life, they are finally together". "You will find a purpose in all your sorrows, there is always a great purpose for our life". "It was his destiny". "You are strong, you'll get over it". "I'm sorry, you are so seriously sick, that I have to call the police to take you to the mental hospital. I can let you call your husband to come here to take you there, but you have to sit right there and wait for him, or I will call the police. Make sure to sign the check before you leave". The list would go on and on.
And books. They were a long list of commonplace phrases, prayers, sobbing stories, hopeful laments. So many people that had it worse, so many people that got out of it. The expert in grief that finally had lost a friend to suicide. To her, all books looked alike, because all she could see for a long time was a blur of letters mingling on the pages. She would stare at them for moments at a time and she could make no sense of anything. Like wooden wagons of a toy train that had lost their magnets. She would pull a word and the rest of the sentence wouldn't follow on the track. The line of thought was gone. She risked unraveling the sweater of her brain if she pulled too hard on it.
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I guess the moral of the story is "Never underestimate the desire of people to want to console others (and themselves)"; raising the minimum wage of happiness, so to speak.
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