Letting go..?

Writing feels really hard right now but talking feels even harder and I feel I want this out somehow so here I am, staring at my computer screen willing the words to work themselves out to form sentences that might reflect back at me (and youJ) what’s going through my head.
When writing gets hard (I’m not sure I’ve written about this so forgive me if I’ve already explained it) I cut out pictures of magazines and glue them into a small journal that I bought shortly after moving here. It’s recently expanded to doing this on canvas and currently, in a large watercolor book. I don’t think much about the process, I just know that I need to do it if I can’t talk or write. Nine times out of ten what is bugging me is reflected back at me with these chosen images. Sometimes, rarely actually, I either put it away before really getting into it, or what I come up with makes no sense to me.
I shared with a client not too long ago about Rob and losing him. I’m not sure why I told her. I don’t share much about my life with her. She shared that her sister lost her boyfriend five years ago to suicide and has recently gotten married. It was so relieving to tell her about Rob. She listened, and told me it was ok to say what I wanted.
After I finished her hair, I felt I needed to take a walk, cry, or something. I ate instead and became annoyed with a co-worker wanting to talk about something I tuned out. I suddenly felt raw, and wanted to remove myself entirely…from this situation, from the building, from this strange feeling that threatens to overwhelm me should I let it.
Jeff was my last haircut and we went to dinner afterwards. I wanted to tell him about my client but chose not to. Every time I want to talk about Rob or grief, some kind of wall shoots up and intercepts all my words, shoving them back in my mouth, shutting it, locking it, and tossing the key. This has little to do with him and more to do with the fact that talking about Rob makes me vulnerable in a way I feel I can’t handle, so I push it away. It’s hard enough for me to process on my own, but to tell someone else? Someone I’m in a relationship with? I don’t know where to start with that one.
Monday was the next day and I felt myself getting squirrelly, still not talking. By Tuesday I was crying so much that by my lunch break I was desperate to leave work, but stayed anyway. I called Beth asking to see her either Wednesday or Thursday. Wednesday it is.
Later, I texted my friend Derek saying I felt I was being eaten up with grief. “I’m trying to sit with and be ok with it because it is what it is today but it’s killing me…”
He texted back “Don’t sit with it, go use that energy and create something with it.”
Excellent. I will do just that. My head starts bouncing around ideas and I’ve practically imagined what I’m going to paste.
On Wednesday before seeing Beth, I stopped by Blick downtown and bought a 12x12 canvas. This one is rather small compared to my other ones but I’m finding it to be perfect.
“So what’s going on?” Beth asks as I’m settled down on the couch in front of her.
I shake my head already trying not to cry. “I…I had this client come in on Sunday…”
I explain all of that and my lack of willingness to talk.
“Hmm. I wonder…I wonder if you need to talk to Rob.” she suggests. “Tell him about some things that you wish you two could have done. What are some things you feel he’s missed out on?” Beth stood up from her chair and took her coat, and a pillow and arranged it on the table next to me.
“Ok, we’ll pretend this is Rob. Here are some tissues, just incase.” she sits down again. “So just tell him. Anything.”
I might explode into a million pieces. I almost wish I would. I have no idea where to start. It feels silly because he’s been here the whole time, watching all of us live our lives as best we can. I feel I’d be repeating myself but I’m willing to try anything at this point.
“We were supposed to go to Charleston in May but he died in April.” I almost whisper. I’m not looking at Beth or “Rob”, but at the door between them. I smile, tears falling. “We also talked about simply driving around Anderson, where he lived with no agenda, just driving. Usually these things don’t appeal to me, but with him, it didn’t matter, as long as we were together. I feel I get a little crazy now when Jeff and I talk about doing things then end up not doing them or making plans because I feel I never know when we may not get the chance again. I feel I have to do absolutely everything always.”
“Is there anything you’d like to say to Rob about things he’s missed?” Beth asks.
I can’t speak. Tears fall and fall until I’m able to catch my breath. “Everything. Being here, in Chicago, and everything I’ve done and seen. I have this weird attachment to Art+Science. After I interviewed with them, I called Rob while I was standing on the train platform, snow still on the ground in March, explaining everything that I would have to do as an assistant, like a teach-back at the end of the program and class every Monday for eight hours. I was more than willing to go ahead with it. When the time came to actually do my teach-back I was a hot mess thinking he should be here with me now. I should be able to call him and tell him about what I was doing.”
“Is there anything you wish you had said when he was still here?” Beth asked.
“Nope.” I shake my head. “I told him everything. The last thing I said to him before he left my house the day he died was “I love you.”
“You two have a very strong connection, even now.” Beth observes.
I nod.
“I’m wondering if you need to let go of each other. It feels like he needs to let go as much as you need to. Maybe not entirely leaving each other but get to a place where this doesn’t consume you. Like, maybe set up a time where you can spend time with him, talk to him, or whatever you’d like and leave at that instead of having him consume all of you. How does that sound?”
Scary. I’m nervous. I’m willing. At the same time though I feel my grip on this tighten, threatened with the idea of further loss. I try to acknowledge that I’m doing what I’ve always done, held on with an incredibly intense grip to anything that I might lose, good or bad. I’m hoping that by acknowledging it, I’ll actually be able to let go. It’s not budging yet. I sigh.
“I’m willing to try it.” I say.
“Again, this doesn’t have to happen, it’s just a suggestion, but I think it’s going to be important for you two to loosen your grip on each other so you can live a full life here. I think that in some ways you keep yourself from having fun, engaging, or being fully open to Jeff because of this.”
I nod. I do.
Later I’m in my apartment, my collage project strewn all over my living room, Pandora playing on my laptop some soft piano-heavy music, mismatched pajamas cover my chilled body, and a picture of Rob rests on top of the loveseat. I wander around the coffee table, sifting through all the images I have spread out there, my fingers grabbing certain ones and setting them aside. There is no rhyme or reason to this, just whatever jumps out at me. While doing this, I’m glancing at the smiling image of Rob’s 26 year old face, feeling all of it’s familiarity but distance at the same time. It’s been two and half years, yet it feels like an hour ago that he was just here, or I just hung up the phone after some epic three hour conversation.
“Hi.” I “say” to the image in my head and sigh. I feel silly. I talk to him all the time but this feels a little unnatural. I begin to arrange the images on the canvas. I drew a sketch of something similar a couple of weeks ago. It’s amazing to me that I’ve fashioned these magazine images to resemble the sketch without meaning to.
I sit on the coffee table and face the loveseat, and begin to glue the images on the canvas. “I’m not sure what to say. I’m sorry.” I tell Rob’s picture. “I’m listening though, if you want to say something to me.”
I pick up a picture of a bird, and turn it over. A weird mix of letters and numbers that look like random codes or something litter the page, but in the top right hand corner, the words “I love you” are clear as day. A fresh wave of tears start and as they subside, I get back to the canvas, arranging, gluing, and staring at it until I finish.
There is no sadness as I do this, cry, think, and remember. Just a knowledge of what was, what is, and the fact that he is somewhere and I’m here wondering what to do next.