To Survive Myself…

I was alone like a tunnel. The birds fled from me,
and night swamped me with its crushing invasion.
To survive myself I forged you like a weapon,
like an arrow in my bow, a stone in my sling.

But the hour of vengeance falls, and I love you.

– Pablo Neruda, “Body of a Woman”

Above is an excerpt from one of my favorite poems. I find it to be a beautiful meditation on the sacredness of the female body and its inherent connection to life. Of course, it’s written by a man in love with a woman and is therefore a deeply sexual poem that seems to have no reference in my life right now. Despite this, the phrase “to survive myself” has continued echoing in my head ever since I lost Lizzy.

Perhaps it’s because my husband and I separated while I was pregnant with Cecilia, and I was left alone to care for an increasingly needy two-year old, but sexuality has seemed to have no place in my life for nearly a year. Especially since I lost Lizzy and gave birth to Cecilia, sexuality is almost less than an afterthought. I think it’s still there, quiet and waiting but afraid to interrupt, content to maintain the hushed reverence of the theater or the church. It’s like there’s too much drama unfolding for it to assert itself–as though it realizes that the concerns of motherhood, both grieving and postpartum, will trump it at every turn.

So why does this one line from this beautiful and sexual poem haunt me? I think it’s because the phrase “to survive myself” is a perfect depiction of the struggle I encounter every day. After the loss of Lizzy, life changed from living to survival. Survival for the sake of Cecilia. And I can’t say that my opinion has changed on that, despite the fact that it was four months to the day yesterday since I lost Lizzy, and three months to the day since Cecilia was born. Life for me is still mostly about finding a way to get through the day, about making time pass, and there are still times that I have to take it minute by minute to avoid getting crushed by the overwhelming reality of my life.

As a result, life has become about distraction. I suppose the proper term for this is called “coping mechanisms.” It’s about the things I do to survive, to make time pass, and to get through the minutes. That which is buried inside of me (whether it be memories of Lizzy or memories of the hospital or my love for Cecilia or my broken marriage or my shattered motherhood) is often too much and too big to wrap my head around. I feel fundamentally uncomfortable in my own skin, as though something is always wrong with a nagging suspicion that nothing I can do will ever make it right again. This wrongness of being and wrongness of self permeates everything I experience, making the act of conscious survival a constant chore. It’s as though a bony and sharp-nailed finger is continuously scratching lightly against my skin, never stopping, and never shifting direction. And, as a result, the skin beneath is slowly being torn away, leaving a throbbing and gaping wound beneath.

I’ve been told that the wound from losing Lizzy will heal and will one day become a scar, though ugly and massive. But I have to say that I do not believe this to be true. I can try to live the semblance of a life and participate in its trappings, but the bony finger is always there, scratching. And if a wound is continually being opened, how can a scar develop?

This is what I mean by survival, and the things I do to try to live with myself. To try to live. I do not know that they make a difference, but I do know that they make time pass, and they let me avoid myself. Because the fullness of what I am now is a reality simply too big to swallow. So, to survive myself, I distract myself.

To survive myself, I watch every DVD in my movie collection.

To survive myself, I try to read every book that I own.

To survive myself, I avoid my friends.

To survive myself, I stay in the back of the church at mass, where I don’t have to talk to anyone or shake anyone’s hand.

To survive myself, I take myself away from my family and stay quiet.

To survive myself, I plan dream trips that I will never take.

To survive myself, I design a dream home that I will never have.

To survive myself, I pretend I am not me, and I am not broken. I pretend that what has happened to me has not happened. I pretend there is a chance of a different kind of life–a life where my woundedness no longer defines me.

But the hour of vengeance falls, and I remember. Every night I fall asleep to the reality of Lizzy being gone and wake to this same reality. And I find that it is in those small hours that I have the least strength to avoid the realities of my life or to engage in pretense.

So is it a coping mechanism? I suppose, but it’s not a very effective one. Because that’s the problem you find when your child dies; you have encountered a reality that cannot be undone: that nothing and no one can fix for you. And no matter how much you distract or pretend, the fundamental wrongness of your being follows you. Because, at the end of every day, it’s never really about you. It’s about what was best in you that is forever gone. And that will always be Lizzy.