TW: PTSD, grief, loss

Writing is the exception to the fact that one does not observe with their own voice.

My time away from this blog has given me the irreplaceable opportunity to become an observer, to feel both small and stateless, student and subject. I have been blessed with the audience role for worlds in constant flux, inside and around ourselves. Making myself as small as possible in my theater seat used to be a way to protect myself but I have found it can still be beneficial at times.

This weekend I allowed myself to be whisked away for a surprise day out in Salt Lake City. While the Italian food and company were both a treat, our time at the Utah Museum of Contemporary Art made itself to be the most nourishing.

We sat on a low bench as images were projected onto three walls of the dark viewing room. Sounds of babbling streams, bird calls, and traditional Native American songs filled the space between us. As individuals introduced themselves and the tribes they were from, I felt small in the shadows of their stories and connections to the land I was being shown. I was presented with something much larger than myself that could only be appreciated by… shrinking before it.

My Small Self continued through the rest of the exhibits at this size. I stood two inches tall in front of a wall calling for justice, healing, listening, and awakening to just about everything one could imagine. Your inner child, racism, war, love, life, mental illness, generational trauma – all things written in by prior visitors. I took a moment to write my own call for awakening before moving on.

The last exhibit featured activist posters and billboards. The average height of a billboard is about 13 feet, but they seemed much larger to My Small Self. Seeing how far and wide these messages for representation reached made me feel tiny in the best way. Human themes remained unified regardless of their location and language. They truly represented something larger than the Self. 

As we left and I mentally returned to my normal size, I felt both a part of and set apart from the passersby on the street. It felt so good to be seen as someone deserving of recognition and rights. But at the same time, it was less about my Self, as it was all of us together. Everyone with cPTSD like mine. Women. The oppressed. Humanity as one.

And, of course, this date served to help strengthen the bond I have with my partner. We talked about what we saw and how it made us feel and spent quality time with one another. Again I found myself in the position of the observer, this time of some guy I happened to match with on Hinge like 18 months ago.

In the time we have spent together over the last year and a half or so, I have seen this man care for his plants and his dog with an unmatched tenderness. Goofy jokes and good hugs served side-by-side. Genuine and comfortable, he has always been a warm presence of loyal friendship and open arms. It must be a family trait, because I have always felt that way around his parents as well.

His mother (we’ll call her T for today’s purposes), had especially gone out of her way to make sure I knew I belonged. She had put me in a position of audience of myself time and time again, giving me the opportunity to really see some of my childhood untruths. Using her boundless kindness, T slapped me in the face with the book my trauma had written and told me to correct it. Fitting, as she was a teacher in her working days. She was still a teacher on her last day.

By being witness to the end of a life, and all the ripples it sends through community one by one, I truly saw the impact one person can make through both presence and absence.

I was firsthand to raw, unadulterated grief as I watched a husband mourn a wife who hung the moon and stars in his sky beside his two sons serving as uncanny mirrors. Three grown men looking to each other for guidance like children as the beeps of T’s heart monitor grew fewer and farther between. Silence, a quiet announcement of the time, sobbing.

I saw the same grief in myself now as I had nearly 10 years ago. Familiar, but different. I observed the way it felt like burning black tar in my muscles and rendered me as helpless as an animal stuck in its tack. I could not “fix” it. I could not make this chosen family feel better. I could not ignore my own body and emotions.

I, like my partner and his father and brother, was beside myself. We all physically remained in the ICU for the rest of the morning but our minds were elsewhere. 

***

It is a strange phrase, “beside oneself.” By conventional definition, it means to be overcome with emotion or distraught. 

But these experiences have given it a new definition for me. Now it is more like… sitting next to a friend or the silent companionship of a dog. Stay with me here.  

I have learned that it is okay to be beside yourself in this new way – present with your self as opposed to disconnected from it. Comfort them the way you would a grieving partner. Talk to and listen to and sit with them as a kind mother figure would. Care for them in their time of need.

I can’t say everything about these experiences was fun, but now I can sit beside myself and the both of us and take in the vista of the progress we have made. I urge you to take a break on your climb to enjoy your own company at this viewpoint to see how far you have come. Celebrate together on your good days, offer consolation on the bad days, and appreciation on the days between.

Be a small observer, of yourself and those around you, and everything that is larger than us all.

Find the Utah Museum of Contemporary Art online at www.utahmoca.org

For information and resources surrounding grief, please visit https://www.goodtherapy.org/learn-about-therapy/issues/grief