Two years ago I spent Thanksgiving harassing my Twitter friends with “#ridiculouslygrateful” tweets and wrote a long post which, in addition to detailing the insane events of the week of my brother’s arrest, I talked about how the week’s lesson was on perspective. A turbulent, stressful week supposedly gave me perspective about the things that matter most. I think the relief-fueled elation did most of the talking. In January of this year, when my grandfather passed away, I took some issue with my mother uttering that same sentiment — that it taught us to appreciate the important things and all of that business. Monumental life events don’t negate or invalidate the feelings inspired by daily life. What’s more, sometimes trivial problems are a worthwhile distraction.
I’m amazed, looking back at that first post, by how coherent it is. My memory of that week is a blur of anxiety and tears. I went to a few classes, but mostly just sat in my apartment scouring the internet for new information or calling my parents. Yet, when it was over, it was truly over. There was a finite ending and there was much to be gained from walking myself back through everything that had happened to create a timeline.
I suppose a death is an ending, but for me, from where I was sitting, it was just the beginning of an undefined period of grief. That’s the thing about perspective — if my lesson was that there is only one, then I clearly learned the wrong thing.
When there is no concrete timeline or storytelling to be done, comfort must be sought other places. It comes from friends who let you dump out probably past the point of fairness and don’t question when you’d like to make a big joke out of things because that’s how you feel like coping at that moment. It comes from telling people that you love them. It comes from cleaning and baking and distractions. It comes from losing yourself in a good story for an hour or two. It comes wherever the hell you can find it.
I was in a play last weekend, which also coincided with the latest and greatest life struggle that isn’t mine to share. Everyone knew something was wrong. A few people knew what, but not most. On several occasions people sat with me. Just sat. They didn’t ask me questions. They just sat next to me. Close enough to say, “Hey, I’m here,” without actually saying it, which would have made me uncomfortable, because feelings.
It’s amazing to me that people I’d met only a month earlier, people who don’t know that much about me or my family, could do so much with so simple a gesture. I’m amazed by how much it meant to have someone simply sit with me. I don’t know how it took me 25 years to learn what a valuable thing that could be.
I have been fortunate enough to have an amazing but also entirely insane family and I am so thankful for that. I am incredibly grateful to the people who have patiently listened to my radically shifting emotions over the last week. Or many weeks, as the case may be. I am equally thankful to have so many people who have mastered that fine art of being supportive without asking questions about what or why. That’s a beautiful skill.