I am officially freaking out. It’s the bad part of grief, the “if only I had…,” the fight against the reality of loss, the self blame, the wanting to have been better (in a relationship that I loved, because I didn’t just love Don, I loved the me when I was with him and the us of us). It’s combined with performance anxiety about speaking about Don, all the while imagining him speaking in my right ear saying, “Improvise. That’s what I’d do.”
I’m like, “Of course that’s what you’d do.”
He’s like, “You can do it. Come on. Be in the moment.”
Sometimes, of course, I’m just arguing with myself, and I can tell this because the comments get so sarcastic and Don never talked to me that way.
In the middle of this…the fear of saying something wrong, or too personal, or, whatever/whoever help me, repeating something I’ve written here, I call a friend in Oregon and she reads me this:
“In everyone’s life, there is great need for an anam cara, a soul friend. In this love, you are understood as you are without mask or pretension. The superficial and functional lies and half-truths of social acquaintance fall away, you can be as you really are. Love allows understanding to dawn, and understanding is precious. Where you are understood, you are at home. ”
p. 14, “Anam Cara: A Book of Celtic Wisdom,” by John O’Donohue.
I think, if I imagine I’m just talking to Don, maybe I’ll be okay. Maybe I’ll still be home.