After the birth of my daughter, the post partum madness got a hold of me. It was like having nerves and neurons cranked up to 11, feeling every little bump on the road like an earthquake that would surely undo me. The real cruelty of such things is that they never do undo you. It's similar to how in the first trimester it's almost easier to actually "be sick" than feel nauseas all the time. Maybe it's something in my nature but I just hung on the edge of "sick" for three months without ever really being sick. Forgive me for the gory details but I'm trying to formulate this thought as I write it.
I distinctly remember the moment where my will broke. I got angry at God and I hissed at him, one night at 3, or 4, or 5, as my infant daughter slept soundly and I stared at the ceiling on pins and needles, heart pounding, adrenalin pumping, sleep miles and miles away. I said "What could I possibly be learning from this!" I shocked myself. I had never taken that tone with Him before. I needed help and I knew it.
Not because I "took that tone" with God (one I had taken many times with my husband, I am sorry to admit). That was actually a beautiful moment between us. Looking back, I think it may have been the first moment I hadn't edited myself for Him. But because I had been suffering, really suffering for months. Not only was it robbing my sleep but my joy.
My healing came from a Dr.'s scrip pad and the cushy couch of a sympathetic counselor. It's been almost a year now that I've been "back". A big factor of my recovery has included a subtle numbness that has allowed me to drive the bumpy road, and see it for what it is. A simple bump here, or trip up there, not my utter and complete destruction. I am the girl who cried at commercials. Or more specifically a well placed song in a commercial had- before this experience- driven me to tears and then straight to the piano to write my own response. The last year or so has seen little of that- but a fair trade I reasoned for my new found peace.
I write this because a simple song played loudly in my car (as my daughter nods her head in time to its rhythm) has elicited a tear and a mad drive to rush to the piano again. It has also spoken to me of an unresolved issue in my life, my relationship with my father.
"Take this sinking boat, and point it home, we've still got time…raise your hopeful voice you have a choice…"*
Reason, logic and convenience aside, it's time. To go "home".To see him, to talk, or not to, to introduce him to his grand daughter, and to be ok with whatever will be from there. I have a choice. There is still time. For me, "home" is a place of anger, frustration and ultimately terribly disappointment. But perhaps what I am learning is that I can go there with my hope, and offer that. And be ok with a response or a non response. Either way it will be hope's victory. (Thanks Irish).
Another thing I am learning is that what prevented me from getting my healing sooner were my pre-conscribed ideas of how and in what form it should come. All healing comes from the Healer, The Great Physician. So it's my Father who's gingerly walked me to a place of reconciling with my father. Who's nudged me in the direction of the healing I've needed before I could face the real elephant in the room. The real bump in the road. And somehow it's just not frightening anymore.
* "Falling slowly", Glen Hansard/ Marketa Iglova, from Once.
 | Currently listening:
Once
By Original Soundtrack
Release date: 22 May, 2007 |
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