In no time at all, I’ll be going back on the road. Launch date: May 1 at the latest. My intention is to stay out on the road this time. I’ll visit friends and family, but will stay in my T@b Teardrop, PinkMagic, primarily. I’ve missed the coziness of her, the cocoon that she is to me.
This time in Arizona has been what I needed it to be, what I intended it to be. While I’ve fallen off the wagon as far as regular exercise, I have been working hard in counseling. It’s been incredibly intense, now that I’ve added EMDR to the process.
Because it’s Tuesday, my day for EMDR, I’m very tired. It takes a physical and emotional toll on me, which is okay; how can it not be wearying when I’m delving into all the fucking trauma of Chuck’s death and the months afterwards?
So...idle thoughts running through my head:
My therapist who does the EMDR is a knowledgeable woman who gives her all. She’s done the EMDR, guided me through a tapping exercise I can do myself, and today taught me TRE, which is a trauma release exercise. It works through a series of physical positions that stress the body into shaking and tremors, and through those physical reactions, the trauma in muscle memory is released. All of it is fascinating and not completely understood as to why it works; it’s just been found to work.
My Saturday’s are taken up with burlesque dance classes and throughout the remainder of the week I work on my costumes, glittering and sparkling them up. When I return to the road this time, my altar-identity of FWG will be stronger and more vivid than ever. This class has already filled my intention, which was to find some level of creativity again, and awareness of my body.
I’ve created and designed both costumes for my performance, and most of the choreography. The Merry Widow (definitely a play on words with that cuz there ain’t no merry about it), morphs into an FWG. My entrance onto the stage will be to Leonard Cohen singing Dance Me to the End of Love. I’ll be dressed in a long, trailing, frayed, black skirt. Over my head I’ll carry a parasol, draped in black veiling that hangs to my hips. I’ll swirl to stage center, and, as the words to the tune begin, I’ll dance as if I’m dancing with my beloved husband, not a hard thing to do, as he and I danced to this tune many times.
As that tune ends I’ll step behind a tall screen, which will be backlit so the audience can see my silhouette, and, in very theatrical movements, I’ll toss my parasol to the floor and shed my black widow’s weeds and begin donning the bright pink and orange of an FWG. Two layers, two shades, of pink tutus, with pale pink stockings, pink and silver glittered shoes, and a flaming orange short cape. My last accessory will be a glittering sword, and I’ll move to the tune of Girl on Fire as I step from behind the screen and assume a Warrior Goddess pose as the lights flash on to the sound of an explosion.
I don’t know where this will lead, this burlesque, and I mostly don’t think about it. It’s simply one avenue of my therapy for myself.
I do think of Chuck, if he could see me now, doing this. Doing all of this that I’ve done since that April night, and he wouldn’t be so much proud as fucking impressed with the chutzpah that has been required of me to bust down walls emotionally and physically.
I haven’t conquered the grief but that has never been, and never will be, my intention in anything I’ve done in the almost 3 years since he died. My only intent has been, ever will be, to be as honest as possible with myself and with others, about this clusterfuck of grief. I swore, right after he died, that I would write directly and in as raw a manner as I needed about it, and not try to pretty it up to make it palatable to the world at large. I need strong people in my life and if they get scared off by how I am or how I express it, then they need to pretty much just get out of my way to make room for those who can bear it with me. No hard feelings, just go over there thank you very much.
I’ve been clear with people regarding the following:
Don’t tell me everything is going to be okay you don’t know that, nor do I.
Don’t tell me he’s with me you don’t know that neither do I.
Don’t tell me I’ll be a better person for going through this that’s bullshit. I was a damn good person before he died.
Don’t tell me anything about God thank you very much, about how He/She/It must have wanted another angel bullshit. Bullshit.
Don’t tell me there’s a plan. I don’t believe it. God, if He/She/It exists, is, I’m sure, busy doing other shit and not looking down to see who can be stricken and killed next.
Don’t tell me there’s a reason and it will reveal itself to me in time. That’s bullshit. The reason he died was that he got fucking cancer and it ate him up and he died. God had nothing to do with it.
But here’s what you can do:
Cheer me on as I continue to make the decision every day to get up and face the damn day and do whatever I can to engage with people and things, even if I’d rather not be here on this earth.
Cheer me on as I face all the fucking trauma of his dying time and saying a final goodbye and sob that trauma out each week in counseling and EMDR.
Cheer me on as I hitch up my trailer again and drive out into this country, going only on my heart’s instinct as a guide, and pass by spots where he and I stopped for lunch, or went hiking. We spent 4 years on the road; there is hardly anywhere that isn’t as a spear to my heart with each and every goddamn and blessed memory.
Cheer me on as I don pink, pink, pink, and glitter it up on a stage, dancing my way through this devastation and in spite of this devastation because it’s what he would expect of me. He knew that, however I did this, it would be in a large way because he knew the woman I am.
Idle thoughts...driving, dancing, sobbing, embracing the pain and grief, keeping my heart open no matter what, gripping the sword of battle in my hand and facing into the fucking wind because it’s what I do and this grief is a battle for me and I don’t take it lightly at all and no matter how often I stumble and fall, and fall apart, I will always, always stand back up.
No matter what.