Dead People

 A few days ago I picked up my newish journal (I finished the old one while still in California as September shifted to October) and settled in with it on our sunny lanai for an hour or so. I had to change pens halfway through my writing because favorite pens always run out of ink when I'm on a roll. My thoughts were racing as usual and there were constant reminders that my longhand skills were not what they used to be. Still, despite numerous interruptions, I was able to generate a piece of writing that absolutely made me feel better--once I got those thoughts out of me and onto the ruled sheets of my newest friend and therapist. I thought for a moment, journals have saved my life. Was I being dramatic? The thought had some resonance and I accepted it despite the drama. I moved into the rest of my day feeling like I'd had a breakthrough therapy session. And it was free. 

I've stated before--within the context of this blog that I write things in my journal--intensely personal things--that I wouldn't even think of releasing into the blogosphere (do they even still use that term?) or sharing to the general public. But my last entry here was deeply personal and up to the moment it was shared, very private. It felt good to finally move the cursor to the "publish" button even though I'll admit, it hovered there for a bit. When released, the weight of thirty years began to fall away. I began to sense a bit of regret that I hadn't done it sooner but I quickly let that go. Not productive. I resolved to be more emotionally honest with my blog entries moving forward. The weekend progressed and the journal stayed in my backpack until today (Wednesday) and this is my first blog entry since October 11. 

One of the patented musings I made in that journal entry on Friday, October 21, 2022, was regarding the short list of people I can feel comfortable calling. On the phone. Whenever and wherever I need to talk. The list is short for many reasons. I'm not much of what they call a "phone person" and most likely never have been. In those rare instances when I felt I really needed to talk with someone, I called from a select list of now dead people. Kathy. Aunt Bernice. Mom. René. The list extends through time and space but these are the most recent. There are other dead people. Interestingly, they are all women. That doesn't surprise me because--with the exception of my father--I don't believe I've developed the same type of relationship with any man. Sorry guys. Even while my father still lived, our conversations (before his dementia) were rare but often deep. 

I guess I tend to think about death more often at this time of the year. Maybe it's because the "Day of the Dead" coincides with my birthday. Maybe it's because I see nature's awesome display of death and eventual renewal play out before my eyes. Maybe it's got something to do with the fact that I recognize the sheer miraculousness of it all. Whatever the reason I don't think about it with fear...usually. Pain still bothers me a lot. I don't want a death preceded by lots of pain. Who the hell does? It all makes for some deep inner conversations or words on a page that are becoming more and more difficult to write. Still.

It sure would be nice to talk with someone.