A Natalie Observed

Tag: Manifesting

  • Rivers and Roads

    Last night I went to see the band playing for free at The Barn, Sonic Gravity. Their renditions of Rock with You by Michael Jackson and Love on Top by Beyoncé were the vocalist’s strongest. I appreciated the energy of the bassist with aviator-adjacent sunglasses, a bandana on his head, and a grown-out beard mustache as the guitarist soloed. I would see them again. As they played, words finally found me for what happened last weekend, words I have not been able to find to explain what happened when the first person I dated after Jeffrey became a period and not an ellipsis.

    I kept trying to explain why it ended. I sat multiple times this week to write through the waterfall of tears what took place, but words continued to abandon me. The reality is I really do not know what happened because half the story is missing. Something unraveled and he needed to be alone. There are details to the narrative that feel unclear to me and I have to settle into the fact they might always be that way. I have guesses, but I do not want to fill in the blanks for someone who has to figure out their story. The ambiguity is familiar and triggering. I would love to not know how to so expertly repair my broken heart, but here we are. Once again, I am repairing it, excavating the wound to allow healing.

    Watching The People of Chico dance is a hobby for me. There is a freedom to the movement informed by excessive sunshine, bodies overwhelmed by the throttle of heat, music with lyrics everyone relates to and a Sierra Nevada Summerfest. A man wearing an oversized Hawaiian shirt and green baseball cap that says “Ireland” starts the crowd off first. He tends to be the first one up followed by the woman in sketchers that shape her butt, brown athletic leggings, a periwinkle blue top, a fanny pack, and a pastel pink sunhat with a floppy cylindrical brim she leaves at her table. A tiny child, not more than 3-years-old with three ponytails and red glasses twirls to the side of them.

    There is a couple who walked in past me and they are effortless. Despite carefully crafted tans and bodies who go to the gym, they look unforced and several people aside from me watch them as they find a table. The woman is wearing white jeans and kitten heels. He traces the seams of her denim crop top as she sits between his legs. Her long curly blonde hair snares his fingers. He is scruffy in the perfectly intentional way and wearing Ariat denim. Both of them worked hard to wake up looking like this. That is when I notice she has hands of a 45-year-old and the face of a 30-year-old. California is weird. They wrap into each other, the only two people in this room.

    Wasn’t I just them?

    What do I know about the unraveling? I found boundaries around alcohol use I was not sure how to make before because I did not know what they were. I cannot be around someone who is mismanaging their drinking. I did that before. I watched Jeffrey physically die while I emotionally rotted and died alongside him. I can support anyone on a journey who is doing the work, who does not make me feel alone in our relationship. But when my partner drinks to excess and I am not ready, I feel lonely which triggers anxiety. The anxiety leads me to hypervigilance and monitoring. I did not know that before this person sat next to me at The Barn and now I do. I would not trade knowing for anything. I am grateful to have language for the feelings in my body for whoever comes into my life in the future. I can work on the Parts of Me who are anxious around drinking. I can help them grow confident in what they know. They do know quite a lot.

    Billy Joel Just the Way You Are plays and the dance floor empties out. The woman with the pastel floppy hat is dancing alone. On the other side of the dance floor, a woman dances with an invisible partner, holding her right arm up as if resting on a shoulder with her left arm out to hold a hand. She moves with the grace of a robot, smiling without abandon. This same woman would later slap her own ass and move through Tai Chi movements when Sara Bareilles Love Song played. The freedom. Couples eventually filter onto the dance floor, taking advantage of a moment.

    Would we have ever danced together? We talked about it, dancing. There was not enough time to see.

    Parts of me learned I can trust myself more than I thought. I learned I am able to discern what I need while navigating getting to know someone. I am good at asking for help to make sure I am seeing what I am seeing. I have a solid support system. I am intuitive at observing my body and knowing something is wrong and I am patient, allowing myself time to understand what the “wrong” is. I am also a good advocate for what I need. I did not filter myself unless I was stuck and could not identify what I needed. I did get stuck the weekend things ended. Edges of the PTSD showed themselves and it took me time alone to see what they were. Once I knew, he did too.

    I learned to what degree I do not trust my intuition, to what degree Parts of me still do not trust me. They wonder what I did wrong to not see this coming. They questioned the signs that were there all along. They critiqued why I did not set a clearer and firmer boundary when I saw something that made me feel anxious. These Parts tell me I am an idiot for being at this intersection again, that I let myself be vulnerable to heart break and that is why my heart broke. These Parts and their method of protection are cruel and self-loathing. They meticulously document every single decision I make and find every single reason why I am the fool who made them. My conversation with these Parts does not reason and there is no logic. There is only the extraordinary discomfort of pain and the negative belief I see needs work in EMDR: if I am in pain, it is my fault, even when I objectively see I did nothing wrong. It is maddening to continue holding both.

    I know the counterarguments to the Parts of Me Who Do Not Trust Me: I did not want to judge someone I did not know too quickly. Especially someone with as many green flags as this person. I did not want Trauma to decide if connection is safe. It took six weeks for what happened to happen. It did not and was not happening all along. I did not ignore what I saw. I did not know what I know now and I could not know it before I did. I talked through every worry, every anxiety with my therapist, my grief therapist, Randy, Heather, my parents, with him. I got to know a complex person as a person who is also complex. I did the best I could and I think I did a good job.

    All firsts since Jeffrey have been overwhelming. First weekend away from home. First apartment. First time solo out of the house. Everything since Jeffrey died is something I steer my body through. Meeting this person introduced so many other new firsts: first meet-cute, first date, first second date, first kiss, first third date, first walk in the park, first person in my apartment, in my bed, in my phone, in my struggle with grief. First person who showed me their home, their bed, their life. He is the first person outside of my family to see me panic when a siren surprised me, to see me panic with alcohol, to see me get stuck inside the Panic Prison. I cannot even digest all of the firsts, there are so many others that elude me.

    He was the first person I was excited to tell people about, the first person I told parts of my heartbreak to. First person I introduced to friends while out and about. First person I decided to not question when it felt good, to allow myself just to feel worthy and trust that it was real. When we first met, I kept asking him if it was real. Was he feeling it also? He was. It was. We were. And now we are not.

    Get Up, Stand Up plays and my cousin texts me, reminding me he is willing to sort through Jeffrey’s video game systems still in my closet. My family is absolutely the kindest people. We are all so different, different educations, different careers, socioeconomics, religions. No two of us agree on much politically. Many of my family voted for our current president and I avoid discussions of politics when we gather. I do not need to focus on what is different to love them. They are the gentlest people, there for anyone in the space of a heartbeat and without question. As my mother pointed out, if civil war broke out, we would need all of them to hide us, and we would absolutely hide them. To come from this kind of value system, from this kind of loyalty, is a privilege. I want to show them to someone I love, to someone who also could appreciate what it means to show up for each other. This person I met does understand that, comes from a similar family value system. Sometimes I feel the fear of not knowing if anyone will get to see what I love about my family before more of them are not here. Then I remember I am a product of this family I love so much. To know me, is to know them. As I reflect on this, my sister texts pictures of the family with my grandmother from 2021 and tears well in my eyes. To see her then, more lucid and in her own home. A time before we knew the pain of losing her. I am here listening to Bob Marley and I am there in her living room. Once again, I am touching time.

    Something about my self-doubt shifted as I got to know this person. I do know what I need. I do know my body and I do entirely trust my body. I know it overreacts to things that are from the past. I see edges I did not see before and this person made the space for me to find them at my pace. It was safe, and warm, and kind. I told him all along if the only thing I got from knowing him is that I learned I can experience joy and happiness again, it was entirely worth it.

    I will not rewrite that version of our story, even though it hurts to know I deserve better. I deserve someone who is ready to pick me. Who will not get lost when picking me. Who can both anchor me and float alongside me. Who will know how to find themselves in this sparkly Prussian blue of unseeable, violent water. I live in a delicate gray area. The water is deep, but the color is so incredibly breathtaking. 

    I can do hard things, and I can do them alone. That does not mean I want to. While I am thrilled and proud to have accomplished the Survival of Solitude, I resent every fucking minute I do it. He understood a version of what I meant when I explained this resentment and so very few people ever have to know what I mean. It is a specific type of pain I struggle to articulate. It lives inside of my stomach, in my hips, and in my chest. It makes my heart beat faster and my breath harder to catch. For the first time since Jeffrey died, I was not an alien under observation and study. To find someone who understood loneliness so clearly is something I feel so devastated to lose. And having had it all is so stunningly beautiful. The gravity of the despair alongside the gratitude overwhelms me. I wish it on no one and lug it grimly alone. Their symbiosis is a compliment I will humbly carry the rest of my life. I hope I can find someone who understands it like he did. I deserve to feel witnessed.

    My sister’s childhood best friend texts she is in the neighborhood. I invite her to meet me and we watched the end of Sonic Gravity and then went to dinner. We talked about our adult views on growing up together, on being older siblings, on Catholic school and coming out and breakups. As we flowed effortlessly in conversation, I connected to the confidence of the life I am building and sustaining beyond my tragedies. As I keep saying: I am alive.

    The song Rivers and Roads by The Head and the Heart plays in the background as I write this and for the first time I wonder if the song is not about reaching someone who is no longer available, who life took away from me, but about reaching myself. Maybe I am finally here.

    Rivers and Roads by The Head and the Heart

    A year from now, we’ll all be gone
    All our friends will move away
    And they’re goin’ to better places
    But our friends will be gone away

    Nothin’ is as it has been
    And I miss your face like hell
    And I guess it’s just as well
    But I miss your face like hell

    Oh
    Oh
    Oh
    Oh

    Been talkin’ ’bout the way things change
    And my family lives in a different state
    And if you don’t know what to make of this
    Then we will not relate
    So if you don’t know what to make of this
    Then we will not relate

    Oh
    Oh
    Oh
    Oh

    Oh
    Oh
    Oh
    Oh

    Rivers and roads, rivers and roads
    Rivers ’til I reach you
    Rivers and roads, oh, rivers and roads
    Oh, rivers ’til I reach you

    rivers and roads, rivers and roads
    Rivers ’til I reach you
    (Oh) rivers and roads, rivers and roads
    Rivers ’til I reach you

    rivers and roads, rivers and roads
    Rivers ’til I reach you
    (Oh) rivers and roads, rivers and roads
    Rivers ’til I reach you

    rivers and roads, rivers and roads
    Rivers ’til I reach you
    (Oh) rivers and roads, rivers and roads
    Rivers ’til I reach you

    rivers and roads, rivers and roads
    Rivers ’til I reach you

  • 11:11

    11:11

    One year ago, I arrived at the hospital for rounds anticipating guidance on removing your life support. The medical team informed us the day before tests confirmed you were not responsive. Your brain did not register any of the pain you definitely should have been in. I already knew. I knew when the neurosurgeon named Natalia told me on November 9th to keep hope up, to talk to you and play music. She told me we never know what kind of healing the brain can do and while I knew she was right, I knew you were not coming back. You did not have it in you to heal from this. We did not know how long you did not have oxygen when I started CPR. She introduced herself as Natalia when I arrived at your room. I remember because I tried to address her by title, as Doctor, but she corrected me. “I’m Natalia”. She’s the only name I remember from that week because her name was close to mine. She asked if she could hug me before leaving. I said yes and she gave me a strong, sturdy, caring hug. I played Reggae Saturday on KEXP because you loved Reggae Saturday. That’s what we would have listened to. I held your hand. I told you I loved you and that it was okay to move forward. I am realizing now you were the first of two people I have told this year it was okay to move beyond this life to whatever is next. The second was Grammy.

    After Natalia hugged me and left, I sat in the room listening to Reggae Saturday with you alone for a couple hours before others arrived. I do not remember who came or when. I know your sister was there and your brother. Your dad and his partner. My parents were making separate journeys from Chico. I had not slept while staying at Adam and Randy’s. I lay awake and cried, in shock. I got to your hospital room by 6:30am. Dottie was staying with Adam and Randy because I could not leave her alone. I sat on the sofa in your room and focused on breathing. Inhale, 1-2-3-4. Hold, 1-2-3-4. Exhale, 1-2-3-4. Even today when I have box breath like that to help my body settle, I remember sitting in that room on the pleather sofa that was easy to clean. I remember looking at lifeless you and out the window at the oranges and yellows of fall. I remember the beeping as they tried to thin your blood. The machine did not work and the nurse was so kind as she overly explained that “this happens sometimes”.

    I was hugged by your neurosurgeon on November 9th. On November 10th, we learned your brain was unresponsive. That you felt no pain. My mom and I walked to your room and a doctor asked to speak with me in a quiet room down the hall. I knew she was going to tell me you were not responsive and actively thought “remember this hallway Natalie, it’s going to change you.” I remember the wall of professional photos of the medical team. I wondered who the interior designer was of a hospital and how did they get that job. As the doctor told me, a conversation I cannot remember, a woman walked in on her phone seemingly unaware I was learning you died. That woman was probably stuck in her own nightmare. Not getting the hint from the palpable despair in the space, the doctor who told me you were brain dead asked her to leave. The woman startled, apologizing for intruding. My mom held me as I wept. We went home. There was nothing left to do. I told Facebook you were not going to wake up and the first of many panic attacks gripped me. Sitting on our sofa in our home, I lost my breath and hyperventilated as I attempted to touch the reality of you dying. The same reality I still struggle to touch. The energy of trauma is other-worldly and powerful. No wonder it splits us.

    On November 11th, I arrived at the hospital a little late for morning rounds. My parents were with me, and I think I asked them to stay in the family waiting area until I knew what was happening, although I cannot remember. I did not want to crowd your room and we were only allowed so many people. The medical team stood lining the hallway and I parted the members of your family blocking the entrance to your room so I could set down my water bottle and jacket. Was it raining outside? Or was it sunny? I think it was gray? So many details I cannot remember. I squeezed your hand and told you hello. Your eyes were half open, the sparkle no longer adorning the cerulean anymore. There was a thin layer of white crust under your eye lashes as your eyes attempted to keep moisture in them. I grabbed a tissue and wiped it away. I tucked your hair behind your ears. I joined your family in the doorway to your room and tried to understand what the medical team was talking about. They gave updates about your nutrition and fluid intake.

    I think it was on the 11th, although I cannot remember exactly what happened and when, that your sister said the quiet part out loud on behalf of all of us: why are we gathering to discuss your nutrition and fluid levels when your brain died? I did not understand what we were doing at Morning Rounds and was so grateful when your sister interrupted their updates to ask. We arrived on the 11th expecting to be talked through pulling you off life-support, but here we were getting updates on your nutrition. Your sister knew you would not want to be laying there like this. We all knew you were not supposed to be suffering any more than you already had. It was not what you or any of us wanted. I did not hear the reasons and went back to your bedside. Someone told me we were supposed to meet with a team at 10am. Everyone dispersed for a walk, a cry, tea, or coffee. I do not remember where I went.

    On the 11th, at 10am, your father, his partner, your brother, your sister, myself, my mother, and my father all sat in the room where I learned you died just the day before. Across from us, two women introduced themselves before quietly and kindly discussing next steps. They asked us to talk about who you were to us. I do not remember much of the conversation. Eventually, they explained organ donation and how it works and I realized they were preparing us for a conversation I had not anticipated. You were an organ donor, and your body had not completely died yet. Just your brain. And, amidst all of this, we could help you help other people. Several of us indicated approval of the idea. It was unquestionably what you wanted. The donor coordinator asked your dad one final time if she had permission to move forward. He made eye contact with me and I nodded (or did I say something?) and he looked to the coordinator and confidently said “it feels like a no brainer. Let’s move forward”. Here we all were in a situation where you were brain dead, having opted to be an organ donor. It was a literal no-brainer. The air in the room hung heavy as everyone quickly assessed if we should start crying over this remark or start laughing. I started laughing, tears filling my eyes. You would have thought it was funny. We looked at the time, and it was 11:11am. So, on the 11th day of the 11th month at 11:11am a group of us defined a day meant for Veterans and Hope as something else entirely. We formalized your time of death.

    Today, I woke up at 5am and could not fall back to sleep. I cried as I remembered where I was one year ago and what it felt like to not know what would happen to you. I tried to exercise but quit one-third of the way through because I could not stop crying while on the bike. I canceled the massage I scheduled because I poorly planned it to take place at 10:45am and I knew I could not stop crying or relax as 11:11am passed on the clock today. I am sitting in my dry, but sweat drenched clothes, wearing the KEXP “You are not alone” shirt your dad got you and your Eddie Bower printed fleece pullover we bought that one time at U-Village. I carved into a candle my mom gave me yesterday. The candle was made by a shaman to burn on 11/11, the angel number, the number of hope and remembrance. My mom had been saving it for herself for years, always out of town on the day or not able to get to it. She handed it to me last night after I made Grammy’s cookies for her memorial on Friday. “I realized you could use it more than me”. I carved the words “love”, “healing”, “wholeness”, “alignment”, “rest”, “peace” and “laughter” on one side. I carved your name on the other. I am going to sit here and watch it burn in between episodes of whatever I end up watching. Because today marks one year since you died and I do not know what else to do but try and remember and focus on what’s to come. David Kessler once said “Anxiety” is the Present and the Future while “Grief” is the Present and the Past. I’m firmly in Grief today. It is a relief to be here.

  • Manifesting

    Tonight, while walking Dottie, I remembered the sensation when the air felt like the exact temperature of my skin that I wrote about last entry. This feeling is how I imagine the feeling of “total neutrality” to feel. It is so comforting. The air is thick, giving slightest awareness of a density as I breath it. The sky is a dull, faded blue except the emboldened neon and citrus sunset magnified by a layer of smoke from a fire in another county. If I think about the smoke layer, I feel claustrophobic. What if we suffocate? I began to go down that rabbit hole and quickly distracted myself by encouraging Dottie to follow me inside. She followed and got a treat. We’ve made progress.

    I had a wonderful day. I felt joy. I woke up in a good mood and felt accomplished in my workout. I added dumbbells to my fitness routine and while I cannot complete all exercises or use the recommended weights they do, I am at least committing to trying the whole time. And I’m learning the form.

    I met with a woman who invited me to join a grief support art therapy group just for therapists! You guys! This is the best and most exciting thing I can think of happening to me right now! I am so thrilled to finally have a space with other people who know Grief, will have the skills to hold mine AND create art about it. I felt so seen and understood. Is this what hope feels like?

    I felt really “on” with my clients. I cannot explain what went well or what happened because my job is private. I did collaborate with another therapist on a shared client. We aligned on our conceptualization of the case and that felt really good. In summary, I can see the impact I have on clients and the feedback I am receiving is positive. In a job with a constant evaluation of what did or did not go well and what to do next and questions about whether I am thinking of everything I should be and how do I know what to do next and who can help me figure out that new thing I do not know and did I do everything I can to keep everyone as safe and alive as I know how to… getting confirmation that your clients see change and are accomplishing their goals is such a gift. I do not take it for granted.  

    I helped my friends navigate a problem that I could help them with because of my training. And that felt really, really good. I think the thing I am realizing is that I am growing more confident in my skillset. I still do not know and will never know everything. But I am learning to trust my thinking. The quieting of my skeptical analyst is really, really peaceful. Anxiety is a little bitch – to all of those constantly questioning, I see you.

    I got myself a television for the bedroom so I can fall asleep to a tv and not to my iPad in the bed. This is a privileged, first-world luxury. I feel ridiculous for how much absolute joy it brought me to lay on my bed and feel what it’s like to lay on my back facing forward instead of on my side. What a fucking gift.

    My 37th birthday is tomorrow, and I have been dreading it. My birthday is the 8 month anniversary since they declared you dead, since we said they could take your organs. That is what you wanted. Every first event without you is so painful. I have been stuck in the terrible fear that I would feel too sad to actually enjoy celebrating a day where I am reminded in so many layers that you are not here anymore. I am still terrified I will get stuck in this pain, that I will have to surrender to it, that I will not get to celebrate. This is the PTSD. The fear of never having joy again. That’s why today felt so special. The fear was largely absent.

    Finally, while watching Love Island, I felt a feeling that immediately reminded me of what it felt like to have you sitting next to me, hand in my hand as we watched a show together. I could feel the weight of your body sitting next to mine, the warmth and bumpiness of your dry skin. The starchy nature of the button-up shirt you were wearing. I felt what it felt like when you smiled at me or when I caught you watching me. That feeling of pure admiration I loved and love so much, the admiration I felt directly back. I recognized the feeling and started sobbing in a longing that could not be contained or silent. Dottie tried to lick my face out of crying, but I pushed her off me. I wanted to stay in that feeling of loss. It felt so deep within me, a cavern I had not seen before. I tried to look, to follow it down. How far does it go? If I keep following the pathway, will I fall in? Can I get back? What if I suffocate? 

    Dottie jumped back up as I started to hyperventilate. This time I let her. I kept sobbing as her paws lay on my chest, petting her so she would get reassurance that I was okay. Stroking her gives me a version of a right-to-left brain connection. Pet EMDR.

    As my body relaxed and sobs slowed, I felt a wave of relief. Or was that serotonin rebalancing? Regardless, a connection was made between the feeling of relief and the feeling of how sad I am that I lost you. Feeling the despair, looking down the cavern, also allowed me to feel you. It was incredible and intoxicating. I feel bewildered by it. I am a cliché as I quite literally wonder how love could also feel like this.

    Can my birthday be that terrible when this is is my mind the night before?

    She manifests that it is not.