Monday, June 16, 2008


Jesus God, if I was 16 again I would be posting angsty lyrics on my MySpace and analyzing them to smithereens.

But now, since I'm a grown-up and all, I can calmly sit back and realize that I'm going through the various stages of grief. How many are there these days? 5? 7? 42?

Most of the time, I can clearly identify which stage I'm in. At the moment. Some days, it seems like I'm going through all seven stages at the same. damn. time. Like tonight, for instance.

At the moment, I'm straddling six of the seven:

Shock - the complete paralysis of disbelief? Gotcha.

Denial? Puh-leeze. This shit only happens to *other* people.

Anger? Boy-fucking-howdy, let me tell you about the anger. Barely contained fury is more like it.

Bargaining? I think Husband could attest to that. Tonight's premium offer? "What if I promise to *act* happy all the time?" No takers? Seriously? Bueller?

Depression? Are you kidding me? Isn't that what got me here in the first place?

Testing? Looking at Every. Possible. Solution. (except the obvious one, of course). I'm on it.

Somehow I'm managing to sit in all six at once. A feat of emotional gymnastics, if you will. I am an Emotional Olympian.* The only one I'm missing, the ever-elusive Antarctica of grief stages?


Nowhere near. Can't even imagine it. Sometimes, when I'm leaning more toward Depression rather than, say, Denial, I can see that, yeah, sure, this is probably the End. But just because I can see the End doesn't mean that I have managed to Accept it yet. I don't want to accept it. Plain and simple. I don't want to accept that this is the end of my marriage. That this is how my life is meant to turn out. In my head are a million mantras and catchy sayings and, it should go without saying, song lyrics about moving on, picking oneself up and dusting oneself off, putting back together the shattered pieces of ones' entire world. But none of those are making it from my head to my heart.** Because I don't want to. Is there a secret eighth stage devoted to sheer pig-headedness? I'm there. And I'm not leaving. And you can't make me.***

And then, miraculously, someone small comes running in and dives into bed next to me, and as she does a faceplant to the mattress, all limbs flailing, I hear her whisper under her breath:

"Kung Fu Panda!"

And that's when I know I'll be all right.

*There's a Nancy Kerrigan/Tonya Harding joke waiting to be made here. Go for it. I left my sense of humor back in Shock.
**Good Lord, that was trite. Feel free to click away now. I am, too.
***And if you had a webcam, you'd see me crossing my arms and sticking out my tongue at you.


Ninotchka said...

I love you. Is that trite? You're working your way through this and I truly believe you're going to be OK.

Julie said...

Bah. That diagram should be circular, because it is such BS that the stages are linear and progressive.

There you go -- a little passive aggressive one-off anger from me on your behalf. That's helpful, huh?