I sat on the floor outside the door of the bathroom, cleaning supplies sitting on the counter, unable to move, struggling to breathe, tears streaming down my cheeks.  My watch read 10,282 steps.  Where the hell did it get me?  What came of those 10,282 steps?  I was sitting in the exact same spot I started earlier that day.  The same spot I started yesterday.  The mountain of things, tasks, then more lists with more tasks, all started but unfinished both at work and home, just all over the place, not enough pieces of me to do it all.  I sat on the floor, alone, the towering wave of emotion trying to drown me—and me feeling like I wanted to let it. I was paralyzed, unable to move or even decide how to move.  There was no way to do all at once and I was getting tired of waiting for the help I was literally and explicitly asking for from my family.  No, not everything needed to be done right that second, but the things we had to do were all interdependent and time is a-ticking.  All I need help with is the first thing: clean the damn house.  I needed to get things organized again, and then cleaned, and I’d only need bits of help from there.       

I’d started the day super positive, knowing we had a lot to tackle: multiple stores to go to, a haircut for my son, laundry, dishes, writing, deep cleaning, trimming cat nails, cleaning their ears, bathing the dog, organizing, donating, planning meals for the parties we’re hosting, putting gifts together, finishing cards….and I was well aware not all of this would be done in one day—that’s why I had wanted to start these things three weeks ago.  And now, we’d done so much moving that I didn’t even know I could stop, and I had so much to do that I knew I shouldn’t stop.  Every second wasted was time I could have spent making progress on the mountain of everything that needed to be climbed, and I realized I was trying to climb 3 mountains at the same time.  And a big ol’ 4^th one was in the distance—the mountain I needed to face with all these feelings, this guilt, the thing that was keeping me from focusing and attacking the work I wanted to do:

The fear. 

While cleaning, I saw my Aunt’s name on the bag of shampoo and bathroom stuff I’d gotten from her house when we were cleaning everything there.  My heart dipped.  As I was cleaning the bedroom, picking up hair from the floor, I found a whisker from Loki.  I picked up his whisker from the floor and my eyes started to tear. My husband and son walked out the door, unwilling/unable to help me.  So, I sat alone on the floor. And suddenly the emptiness was too much—and I understood all of this, all of this doing, those 10,282 steps, was to fill something I’m missing desperately—more than I wanted to admit.  The weight of the hole created by the absence, the space left open by all the people I love(d) now gone, just unbearable. I was trying to fill that space with busyness and gifts and trying to perfect the season and overscheduling. All of that fully collapsed, taking my breath and crushing me with it. Thoughts racing, the full realization of how many people in my life are gone, who I can never see again, the finality of all the Christmases never to have again and knowing that there is some sick universal countdown that can never be stopped until the rest of the family goes too, until finally we all go.  Thinking of all the time we wasted, so caught up in our own worlds, pained and alone when all we had to do was reach out, pick up the damn phone, hiding our problems because we felt we deserved them.  And now we will never have the chance to say any of those things to each other.  Ever.  And the cherry on top was the animal that used to be present for all of those things, helping me navigate the emotions, is now gone too.

We can’t make things be what they were once they fall apart.  We never know when anyone’s time will run out.  But I know all too well the pain of missed opportunity to say what we needed to say.  The loss of the feeling, the way it used to be.  I have enough presence to know that the way I envisioned those events unfolding was likely not the way it would have happened, a fantasy.  I’m mourning the idea of what could have been.  I’m mourning the loss of what will never be.  And what I saw was so beautiful, I wanted it so badly.  I have so much love in me, so much I want to share.  And I sit here alone.  It won’t always be this way, I know that.  I know one day I will be able to fill those missing pieces with life, the life I want and have been desperate to build.  Many of the people I wanted to see me get there are no longer here, so this is a mixed bag.  I’m proud of what I’ve done but it feels like a hollow victory in some ways because I don’t get to share it with everyone so I feel like I’m up against a clock to do the rest of this.  The tears will quiet, and the pain will lessen, and the rest will fill in, I know this.  But I can’t continue to walk these steps merely circling around what needs to be done—calling movement progress only to be stuck in a circle.  For anyone dealing with that kind of weight this season, I hope you find solace that we are not alone.  It’s different, but it isn’t lost.  The hearts of those we love still beat in us no matter where they are.  And, no, a clean toilet isn’t going to bring them back, but the love we have in those around us will continue to propel us forward.  So take solace in presence, let the tears come and then let them dry.  We do the best we can, we pick ourselves up off the floor, and our steps carry on