It’s becoming more difficult to write about what’s happening. My first couple postings were actually therapeutic. And were also the first time in a long while that writing about it was. I haven’t been able to write or talk about it for quite some time. The result has been more detrimental than helpful. There is a saturation point and I reached it some time ago. But this blog was feeling helpful. Was
I’m also finding it more difficult to hear my friends express their sadness at what is happening to me. Especially when they are saying they will miss me. [If I can’t make my trailer livable (eliminate the chemical and smoke odors) or I can’t find a lot/space with electric hook-up, I have to drive down south to a warmer climate]
I’ve been surprised and a little perplexed at how profoundly their reactions are affecting me. It’s almost too painful to hear. Perhaps it just drives home my reality; my own losses, my own sense of deep grief; of missing them. No, more than that. It’s not just losing them, but everything around them; the niche they fill/ the part of my life they represent. Losing them in this way is also losing every aspect of that part of my life.
For instance, a member of my haiku group expressed his sense of loss of me leaving, including the loss of the group and what that is for him. This made me that much more aware of the loss of not only him and all the other members of the group, but the loss of the group itself and what that is for me: fellow poets and friends, a social outlet, a sense of pride and accomplishment, a teaching venue, a learning venue, a purpose, a place to feel needed and appreciated. But this, like everything else before it, is slipping away, as will the few other remaining things that have kept me hanging on to a little sense of normalcy; that have made my life a little more than mere existence.