girl at large

I’m listening to Heather Cox Richardson’s politics chat; she’s explaining that she doesn’t like to use the passive tense. The passive tense has no actor, the passive voice is vague, it’s not clear who is doing what. She takes this thought from school writing class to current day politics; she is my #1 choice for the proverbial perfect dinner guest.

Passive Tense. A perfect description of my current state. Passively scrolling, physically and emotionally tense. Blankly following routines, carrying tension like an accessory.

I’ve been in my own head for weeks, ruminating on painful memories, scrolling for hours. Focusing on one pain rather than all the others. None of which I can control.

I can’t control the government, I can’t control the effects the executive orders will have on our healthcare for Felix. I can’t control my job; I can’t control the market that affects my sales. I can’t control my cancer; I can’t do a damn thing except wait for it to spread. I can’t control my chemo; I passively accept the sickness in exchange for the (fingers crossed) benefit.

I can’t control my arm—it swells and shrinks randomly, without reason, and without regard to my regime of exercise, physical therapy, and compression pumping. My entire chest twitches and contracts with the strain of a work day, typing, standing, driving, reaching. The tension in the fibers, skin, thin muscles ratchets tighter and tighter until bedtime. Pain settles in with me each night. Like everything else, it’s out of my control.

Rather than settle on any of the above issues, my mind returns like a gerbil wheel, to the last messages my estranged siblings sent to me. Over and over I analyze, reread, rethink, re-argue. It’s hurtful, almost physically, deeply and relentlessly. The scab picking cliche applies. I don’t know why I continue to ruminate on a hopeless situation for months and months, but I’m sure my therapist is tired of hearing about it. 

Is this grief?