Failsafe

(This entry has been edited for length and appropriate content. I considered not sharing it because I have had recent moments where anger and rage have surfaced unfiltered and sometimes misplaced. I am grateful for the people and places that hold that space for me. I have apologized to those who received my anger unexamined. Because I am committed to honesty and the truthfulness of this process that is messy, I am sharing what feels truthful and responsible here.)

Today, E would have been 51. I had not even settled on his gift before he died. I love giving gifts, meaningful and unique. I see gifts as statement pieces of who a person is at a soul-level, or who they are becoming. Gifts do not have to be expensive, but are an object made sacred because it communicates what I want to acknowledge in my friend. Edmond’s short, amazing life lasted 50 years and 349 days, and approximately 3 hours. I have no idea how to sum that up today with an object or even a single action.

Today is also Thursday. We have had a standing Thursday night date option on our shared google calendar for years. Even though it has sometimes been shifted to another day due to baseball practice, we really tried to step out together, just the two of us, at least once a week.

Additionally, there is a rare partial solar eclipse occurring from April 19-April 20. I imagine the Universe is going dark to mourn this loss with me and simultaneously celebrating this amazing soul in the half lit sun.

Yesterday, Edmond’s renewed pilot’s license arrived in the mail. All his efforts to keep up his skill-set and training for what? He really cared about doing things right, following the protocols, doing the work, and for what? He is just gone from the planet in an instant. No more flying, running, hiking, working out…none of it. It feels like a waste of all of his efforts to not have him here to enjoy the bounty of his hard work.  

I am crouchy (Ellie’s word for Edmond when he was being both grouchy and crotchety). The pain pouring out of me is emotional and physical. Even the mosquitos who usually swarm for my blood are avoiding me. I am sure I stink of grief. I am angry. The slow boil is an undercurrent throwing flames out when someone comes too close to old wounds unacknowledged.

I turned 50 on Thanksgiving day. Apparently, and in my experience, it is true what they say about how much less we care about what others think of us after we turn fifty. I really have so few fucks to give, not even one at this point. As my filters have fallen away. I speak the simple truths and find that my failsafe, while it wavers in this moment of devastation, is still intact. My failsafe is the pause before saying what I have to say with intent to harm. I will still say what I have to say, draw the clear boundary, or ensure that you feel what I am laying down. But, my failsafe keeps me from unleashing and inflicting my pain on others. 

What I say next is less about the few instances in which this has occurred for me now and over my lifetime, and more for those I have witnessed in service to their grief experience. If the Lorax speaks for the trees, I suppose I speak for the vulnerable who have not yet been supported enough to love themselves, or who need a witness to their grieving. I speak for those who have experienced childhood traumas and abuses that often repeat in adulthood, and those who found profound love only to have it taken. I speak for those who in their vulnerable grieving state have to fend off predatory or malicious intrusions. My rage is for them as my anger boils up from the pit of my stomach. 

I rage for myself too. How dare I be separate from Edmond who loved me so well, so enormously. I am not grieving something less-than. I am grieving a once-in-a-lifetime-if-you-are-lucky miraculous love. 

I unleash my anger like a wall of fire in protection of those who have not found their own self-worth and someone who loves them unconditionally. My anger and rage for the maltreatment of those who cannot yet see their own light is a wall you do not want to cross unless you are ready to add fuel to this fire.

This might seem wrathful, and perhaps it is. I don’t have any fucks to give or time to waste. If this pain of being separated from my soul mate can be purposeful, I will come at it from every angle including rage and anger. 

Edmond’s death changes everything, and it changes nothing. 

In short, those who were assholes before, are still assholes now. If you are wondering if you are the asshole, you are not. The assholes I am talking about are probably not reading this. The assholes I am describing are not self-reflective, curious or empathetic toward other people’s circumstances. They are in fact opportunistic, narcissistic, self-involved humans who either have chosen not to evolve or are perhaps incapable. And, assholes hardly ever know they are assholes.

And a tragedy is not a reset button on the truth. However, it might be an opportunity to be better to each other, to repair the fractures we have caused, to take a hard look at who we are and who we say we are to see if that matches.

To be clear, I am un-offended by the assholes I encounter. You do not have a place in my realm, and I stopped taking it personally a while ago. I am, however, going to call you out for the sake of those beginning to find their voices. After all, I am a grieving woman, hear me roar.

I am not saying these things to be cruel or mean. The absolute kindest thing to do is hold a boundary out of love and compassion for us both. Be grateful I know a proper boundary. Otherwise, with my filters off, there is no failsafe, and my hurt will hurt others. That is not how I want to live, not even now. 

Certainly, I believe everyone has the possibility of transforming. I firmly believe anyone can stop blaming and projecting their own pain onto others and begin to own their part. But hard conversations are hard, and looking at the shadow parts of ourselves is painful and harsh. Doing that kind of work takes courage.

The unaddressed transgressions before a crisis are still there waiting to be repaired after a monumental event has occurred. Do not leave things undone, unsaid between yourself and those you say you love. Do not allow someone who says they love you to cross boundaries that cause you to feel unsafe emotionally, physically, or psychologically. Emotionally expensive relationships cost us ourselves. 

Repair is everyone’s work. In fact, forgiveness is the work of those who have been harmed. Forgive even when there is no apology because it will set you free. And, hold the boundary that allows you to love yourself and the other person. Sometimes, that boundary means no entry into my grief because you have not been a safe person. You are not worthy of my vulnerability and my exposed heart. 

For those who have harmed children and other vulnerable beings for the sake of control and power, or because it somehow suppresses your own pain, the injury you cause is deep and spreads through our humanity. It is the poison that will take us all down. 

Again, because the non-reflective humans are likely not my audience here, I appeal to those who are reading this who have been abused, mistreated, and disrespected. Resentment is the cancer that comes from waiting for someone who does not live by the same code you do to suddenly show up compassionately. They are not coming to the table you have set. We can open the door, but we cannot pull another person into their own integrity. I urge you to find a way back to yourself, a way to honor and love the being that you are.

All of us have asshole potentiality. Most of us have explored it, tried it on, or had a few slip ups. I had several in the last two days. I hope my repair has been enough. Behaving badly, especially under difficult circumstance, is normal, and most people acknowledge their bad behavior, make it right, or the at the very least decide to do better.

It only takes one person’s transformation to change a relationship. When we transform the way we see ourselves, the way we honor the being we are here to be, we will not accept anything less than being loved in return. I was loved so deeply, so vastly, and I miss his presence by my side. 

My anger and rage are part of my grieving. I scream out in anguish and demand the love I have for Edmond be returned in the form that was finally comfortable and familiar. I had no words left today when I received the Water Song from my friend and soul-sister who helped usher my last two babies into the world. The song is both a guttural uttering of grieving and a beautiful, desperate cry to our maker. The Water Song is written in the language of the heart. The song carried me, allowing the anger to become a powerful force for clarity. I do not want my hurt to hurt others, and so I urge you to find your way back to yourselves. Love the being that you are. This truth will not abide anything less in its presence.