I sometimes read the mail in my spam folder. 
When I discover something like the one headed ‘Big Savings for Crysis’ spam is instantly worthwhile. I am rewarded.
A crysis that is what bereavement is…
Monthly Archives: November 2009
Crysis
Social estrangement and alienation
Six or so months before Mottsu left, I was in the car with radio on when the most haunting version of Space Oddity asked for audience from the console.
‘Ground Control to Major Tom, Ground Control to Major Tom take your protein pills and put your helmet on……’ 
I parked and stayed in the car, not wanting to lose the song, waiting for the DJ to back announce the track and tell me the performer’s name. Natalie Merchant. I immediately bought her Live in Concert CD, and have played it frequently since, always wondering what I could have done differently.
‘Take your protein pills’, look after yourself Major Tom.
‘And put your helmet on’, take care Major Tom.
Natalie’s voice quakes a little, plaintively trying to reach Major Tom.
Pay attention Major Tom.
It was a time when Mottsu was ‘stepping through the door and…floating in a most peculiar way..’. He was the same and different, possibly standing at the shoreline of depression. Mottsu was ‘feeling very still’ at least looking from the outside, he was a little less responsive, maybe a little more withdrawn. There was no specific symptom, perplexing for me at Ground Control, only sensing something wrong.
I have probably said it before, I experienced depression from the outside – as it sat in another- as an invisible darkness. I didn’t see it.
The stars didn’t ‘look very different‘ most days and I did trust that our spaceship knew ‘which way to go..’. The song resonated, a lullaby to my deep (and unexpressed) concerns.
Communication of unconscious to unconscious was making more sense than our conscious exchanges. Natalie Merchant sang to my unconscious uneasiness. My disquiet was not yet known to me as anxiety. Space Oddity provided a metaphoric link to Mottsu’s depressed inner state. I heard Natalie Merchant and recognised the angst in her rendition of David Bowie’s song.
‘Your circuit’s dead, there’s something wrong…
Can you hear me, Major Tom?
Can you hear me, Major Tom?
Can you hear me, Major Tom?
Can you hear….’
My unconscious but rising anxiety and disquiet…
..and he was already sitting his tin can was floating ‘far above the world’. He could report that Planet Earth was blue, nothing was wrong with the world.
His composure, masking inner distress and so far there was nothing either of us could do.
Depression, an unwelcome interloper, enveloping us with creeping social estrangement.
Remote and unreachable feelings.
Alien…
Stage 1
Like I said in a previous post Dr. Elisabeth Kubler-Ross’ Five Stages of grief are assumed by many to be universally applicable to anyone suffering bereavement. It is possible then that, if you are grieving, you may try to track your experience against this well known map of the terrain to determine where you are and what is yet ahead.
Mapping grief by stages may be good and my advice is to do it with a ‘pinch of salt’. The salt is intended to make the theory more palatable – while you, amid the oppressive throes of lament, maintain some measure of scepticism about the direct applicability of any given stage of grief to yourself.
Grieving is an intense and personal experience, uniquely yours.
Stage 1 – the widely known version – Denial and Isolation: “This is not happening to me.”
This is the stage in which you refuse or are unable to acknowledge a loss has occurred. It may be brief or long and is often characterized by withdrawing from others. The first stage is often not a literal denial of the death, but a disbelief that the event has really happened. Denial allows one to cope with the loss initially while engaging other coping strategies to shift to the next stage when ready.
Stage 1 – my version – Realisation and weeping: “This is happening to me.”
I am living my nightmare there is no denying what has happened. The loss is real. There is a realisation that one of the horrible things that happen to other people has happened to you. The only defence mechanism is tears and I didn’t know it was possible to cry so much. It did occur to me that to lose so much liquid through one’s tear ducts might be a potential weight loss mechanism and that I could be skinny, if somewhat parched and shrivelled. I used boxes of tissues, crying everywhere I went and at everything.
I will admit, in defence of the applicability of the Five Stages, friends did not agree with my prognosis that Mottsu would never return. He drove away at 10:15 on a Monday morning. It was around 5pm that day, and long after he failed to return for lunch that I found his (recent) DIY Will in his satchel. That’s when my stage 1 of Realisation and Weeping kicked in.
Panicked I presented a couple friends with my (scant – they thought it insubstantial, ominous – I thought it weighty) evidence:
• Unknown whereabouts
• Depressed state of mind
• Journal from 2 weeks prior, documenting that troubled frame of mind
• Will (we had talked about having Wills prepared and he thought the action bode ill)
• Missed meals
While accepting the situation was uncharacteristic of Mottsu, they didn’t think we were facing a problem. Probably some sort of a well-intentioned denial intended to reassure me. [I was] over-reacting, [I was] over-wrought. He was OK and would return…
I was not reassured, nor did I believe I was over-reacting given [my version of] reality. The disbelief of others pushed me way past Stage 1 before official grieving commenced.
Distraught and muddled I was relieved to be taken seriously by the police when I stumbled into the local station at dusk that day. I can’t believe that I do believe what’s happening. It’s an acceptance not a denial.
So much for Stage 1….
Cup Day
We met on Cup Day, he went to the Cup. 
I didn’t.
He and my house mate, Orvil, arrived home after a day at the races and I met Mottsu on Cup Day. Sometimes I have better luck than a punter.
Today I went to the Cup and he didn’t. Punter’s luck…