I read Alice Sebold's The Lovely Bones a couple of years ago. The novel begins with the brutal rape and murder of a fourteen-year old girl, Susie Salmon. Susie then watches from heaven as her family and friends attempt to go on with their lives. I remember as I was reading this having the hardest time sympathizing with or even understanding the character of Susie's mother, Abigail Salmon--until now.
It took me about 2 weeks, reading 3 chapters before bed each night, to get through the novel. During this time, Cindy was very annoyed with me for the impact this book had on our nocturnal routine. She kept hiding the book from my nightstand. In its place, I usually found 101 TV Guide Crossword Puzzles or Chelsea Handler's My Horizontal Life. I can't say I blamed her--The Lovely Bones is guaranteed to deflate anyone's erection.
In the novel, after her daughter's death, Abigail becomes further and further withdrawn from her family and friends. She goes on to have a loveless affair with the detective assigned to the case. Eventually she abandons her two children and her husband and moves to California to work in a winery. I recall griping about the Abigail character to Cindy, "There's no way a mother would abandon her two living children to work in a winery. Why isn't she out there with her husband searching for her daughter's rapist? Why is she carrying on with that boring detective? This makes no sense at all!" To which Cindy responded, "I can't wait till you are done with that book. Those bones are bustin' up my groove."
What I didn't know then was that when you suffer such an unexpected and violent loss the playbook for your life completely changes. And the person you were before that loss may not be the person you are after that loss. Foods taste different to me, certain songs I loved before now induce loathing, and people that I politely tolerated before now come across completely tiresome to me. My head throbs with the conflicting responses and I am constantly second guessing the new feelings I am experiencing. But, I don't think I can be that same exact person anymore--it would be a descent back into a life I can no longer lead because Cindy is not here on Earth. Like Abigail Salmon, I am not simply running from the past. Rather, I am rewriting the playbook at the same time I am lamenting the part of me that I can no longer be.
2 comments:
Wow...OK...just caught up. Now that I know there are new blogs every day I must be more diligent. Your writing is really amazing! I cannot say that enough. The conclusion of this entry reminds me of a quote I read a couple of weeks ago that I really liked. I participated in a study which led to the publication of the book, Sexual Fluidity, by Lisa M. Diamond. On page 240, Lisa tied some of the book's main themes together and on that page I had two favorite lines. This was one of them: "You enter into each person-context interaction a slightly different person from the one you were at the last interaction." Simple but true.
It sounds bittersweet, JM. Watching from afar, some of the ways you are finding yourself changing are powerful. It seems you are doing the best and hardest thing possible - going through the fire. And you are certainly authentic, which is refreshing, to be honest. As JP says, be kind and patient with yourself. I'm glad to hear that you went running. I was thinking that running to exhaustion or swimming/being under water might feel pretty good right now.
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