Can't Bring Myself To...

Take his name off the mailbox,

Remove him from our outgoing phone message,

Look at my e-mails or calendar entries from October - December of last year,

Empty his things from the medicine cabinet,

Erase his hospital photos and videos from my phone, before I accidentally see them again ...

I Confess...

I only do it when no one else is here in the apartment, but sometimes I do find myself talking to Lionel like he's sitting there listening. Sometimes, I tell him about my day, our mutual friends, stuff going on in the world. Sometimes, I just talk about how much I miss him and what a struggle it is.

It's funny, I never used to understand or "buy" it when plays and movies showed people carrying on conversations with lost loved ones, around the house, at the gravesites, or whereever. It always seemed totally illogical to me.

It still does. But now, it is also strangely comforting.

Emptiness...

Two of Lionel's young nephews just came and got a lot of his stuff. A lot of his clothes, personal effects, books and papers. They will have to make another trip eventually because, after 25 years there was so much stuff...especially since Lionel was as much of a packrat as I am.

But his closet looks almost empty now. The corner of the livingroom where he had things stacked up is nearly bare. His prized boots, that he polished so lovingly. His basketball. Gone, along with a lot of junk he picked up wandering around that had no value to anyone but him.

Which means, of course, that it has sentimental value to me, because these were random little odds and ends, little trinkets that caught his eye and meant enough to him to want to bring them home. All gone.

Some of the stuff I know will just be thrown into the trash...but I couldn't bear to do it. I was trying to be strong because I know his older nephew hates a whole lot of emotional display, but once I started touching his clothes and dusty old shoes, his hats and belts and shirts, I couldn't help it...and ended up crying most of the time anyway.

Hopefully, I will do better next time they come.

Morning...

Despite the fact that he was a "night owl" Lionel was generally also an early bird, by the time I was able to finally drag myself out of bed, he would usually have already been up, made coffee, sometimes breakfast and be watching the news.

Except on the weekends. I always found it funny that, although he hadn't worked in years, Lionel liked to sleep late on Saturdays and Sundays. Unless we had something that had to be done, he could easily stay in bed until almost noon.

On the other hand, I hated getting up Monday-Friday, but looked on Saturday and Sunday as "my" time, and generally got up early to get as much weekend as possible.

His niece and nephew may be coming over this morning, so I am up moving boxes around so that they will be able to get to the things in his closet. Seems strange on a Saturday morning, not to see him laying there in his bed, drinking coffee and watching cartoons.

Full Disclosure...

I typed that last entry on my lunch hour at work. Re-read it for typos then posted here on the blog. What it outlined, seemed like a reasonable course of action to me. Then I went into the bathroom and suddenly burst into tears.

Where did that come from?

I know I was thinking something vague about returning a call to Lionel's niece who would like to retrieve the rest of his stuff this coming weekend. I thought about how I would feel when I was no longer surrounded by his belongings.

The next thing I knew, I was bent over the sink crying like a fool. Fortunately, no one else was there and no one came in before I could pull myself together and splash water on my face. But I have GOT to get to the point where I can think about Lionel without crying. I know that. And yet, even as I type this, I feel my eyes watering again. So much for resolve...

Me, Me, Me

When I read back over the entries in this blog, they sound so self-obsessed. I suspect there's a delicate balance between confronting your despair and wallowing in it.

I also realize that I still have a lot to work through, especially since some of the most difficult issues are so painful to me that I won't even let myself think about -- let alone write about them.

But if this process is about healing there are a couple of things I've learned from past experience -- and bereavement -- that I must do.

One is to try not to focus on myself so much. Extending myself to others who need my help and being a better brother to my sibs, better nephew, uncle and cousin to my family, better friend to my dear friends, will at least channel some of my emotions and energies into a more positive direction. If I'm still too damaged to help myself right now, I may as well try and help others in the interim. That's a lesson I can learn from Lionel who, even at his most sick and broken, managed to have a great deal of compassion for others, especially strangers in need.

The other thing that has helped in the past has been to throw myself into my art. I've been too depressed to generate the energy to write much...even in this blog. But I've got major writing deadlines looming, including a show that opens in two months and several short films to complete. That should be enough to keep me occupied until I've scrounged up the courage to face what I'm working so hard to avoid in my personal life.

Can't sleep again...

I'll be miserable at work tomorrow, because I can't sleep tonight. The trick has become to allow myself to get so tired by the time I lay down, that I fall asleep immediately. Strangely enough, my depression has helped with this because I am always tired now. I walk around exhausted, by the effort to interact with my co-workers and function "normally". Barely able to make it through the day. My 9-5 job remains intense and unrelenting. By the time I return home in the evenings, I am so stressed out that I could fall asleep immediately. And some evenings I do. Walk in, take off my clothes, climb into bed and pull the covers over my head until the next morning.

The problem arises whenever I happen, inevitably, to awaken in the middle of the night. The telephone rings late. There is a noise outside, or I have to go to the bathroom. Then I return to bed, knowing that I must fall asleep immediately or I will start to think. Once I start to think, it's all over and there is no more escape. Which is why I am awake now. Because there is only one thing I can think about...and that is the one thing I don't want to think about.

I was half hoping that, as time began to pass, the pain would become less acute. But whenever there is a sliver of unoccupied time or thought, my mind returns to what I am trying to avoid. And all of those painful feelings and memories are right where I left them. Waiting for me.

Ironically, as an artist, I am my own worst enemy in this situation. I simply cannot develop any distance from the loss that causes me such pain. Decades of theater training and acting have reinforced a natural empathy that is a part of my personality inherited directly from my mother.

In addition, I've had years to develop acute "sense memory" that allows me return not just to the thoughts I don't want to have, but also directly to the feelings I wish to avoid. And not just my own, but Lionel's as well. All of the terror, the misery, helplessness, anguish and agony that he suffered during those months in the ICU...I felt too...because I identify so closely with him.

And all those emotions -- both his and mine -- are just as fresh and raw as when first experienced. Time has done absolutely nothing to dull or dim any of it. All I have to do is stop allowing myself to be distracted -- and I am suffused and demolished by the sequence of events all over again. As vividly as when they first occurred.

As long as I can keep busy and stay present, "in the moment" with tasks at hand, I can function. But another aspect of my artistic life, that part as a writer and director, has me constantly functioning as observer. Outside the situation, looking on and analyzing. There isn't a millisecond since the moment Lionel went into the hospital for the last time that my mind doesn't try to examine and re-examine. That my heart doesn't hone right back in on, to feel acutely, all over again.

And so I end up right back where I started, unable to ignore or get past the emotional elephant that remains planted stubbornly in the center of my consciousness. The more I think about it, the more I think about it... and that whirlpool pulls me right back down into the depths of a despair I seem incapable of escaping.