Queen of Swords

This song was not part of the soundtrack to the movie "PS I Love You," but it's a perfect complement.

For those who haven't seen the movie: most of the images of Gerald Butler in this clip are after he's dead. . .

One of the recent official posts from LJ News talked about "Memorial Status" for blogs whose owners have died. Memorial status prevents them from being purged from lack of use, prevents further entries from being made, but allows comments to be left on entries.

I'd been concerned that uncrowned_king's journal would get purged if I didn't log in every so often, so I wrote in and requested that it be placed in Memorial Status. I got the message late yesterday that they had done so.

It feels appropriate to be doing this now, as I achieve closure and new beginnings. . .

It's been a week of psychological and spiritual insights and breakthroughs, not all of which have made it onto LJ.

This morning's realization: of course I'm exhausted and stressed. The last three-plus years have been literally a live-or-die struggle, even if the "enemy" was all internal. Of course I'm out of touch with my heart. It's been the center of my pain for so long, it's built up a protective barrier around it to prevent any more hurt.

I've been starting to relax this week, really and truly relax. I don't have to fight just to get through the day and fearing the consequences if I fail. I'm treating my convalescing heart gently, tenderly, making it safe for it to feel again, however tentatively.

There is a stage beyond "acceptance" -- at least as I am experiencing it. It's like the 'physical therapy' stage after the cast comes off. I'm slowly getting used to *not* being in pain, to not living in a tightly-curled-up ball, to not feeling desperately unhappy all the time.

It's a slower process than I would have realized. . . but it feels really, really good. . .

I've had a fairly serious addiction to Diet Coke -- caffeinated in the morning, decaf after 3pm -- for a number of years now. It's pretty much all I've been drinking, aside from a very small bit of water. Not healthy, I know, but I told myself that it was a minor vice, hitting my wallet more than anything. I was vaguely aware of reports about how unhealthy it was, but with the degree of grief and stress in my life I didn't care. What I was aware of was the psychological and oral comfort I got from consuming it, and I embraced it, given how little pleasure and comfort there's been in my life overall.

Then, sometime earlier this week, lovetakesyouin posted a link on Facebook to an article about the evils of aspartame.

Since then, my consumption of Diet Coke has gone from "way too much" to less than a can in the morning and less than one mini bottle during the course of the work day, and I'm working my way to "none at all." I'd already quadrupled (at least) my water intake, and that's been helping minimize the withdrawal symptoms. Actually, I've been surprised by how mild they've been.

I've picked up a case of Diet Rite, which I don't like nearly as well (too sweet for me) but it provides the bubbly sensation I like. (I have yet to meet a sparkling water that I like.)

It's been interesting to observe my own process with this. I'd certainly been aware of the dangers of aspartame previously -- and Wolfling, armed with her health class knowledge had been gently pestering me about it during the school year -- but I simply wasn't ready to release this crutch before. I'm taking it as a mark of the quiet but real improvement in the rest of my life: employed again in a non-stressful workplace, major progress on my big writing project, my grief pretty much over (I realized the other night that I no longer feel achingly aware of uncrowned_king's absence in bed next to me every night), and my not-as-frequent-as-they-should-be-but-overall-consistent qabalistic meditations which have been focusing on Malkuth (the Sphere of physical life) for the past couple of months.

It's not something I've done by suddenly developing stronger willpower, it's something that's become possible as I've healed emotionally and found healthier ways of making myself feel good. As I think about it, it's a very potent sign of how far I've come in the past few months. There's still a lot I want to change in my life, but I am much more stable and rooted than I have been.

Of all the stages of grief, the one I am least familiar with is anger.

I'm feeling it tonight.

I'm angry at him.

I'm angry at him for leaving me.
Angry at him for not somehow managing to overcome a mortal wound and triumph for us to live happily ever after together.

True love conquers all, right?

I know he would have died for me.
But he wasn't able to save his own life and live for me.

I'm angry that this evening I stood at my window and looked out on the beautiful spring evening and he wasn't there beside me in the flesh to savor it with me. Angry that this place is not our home.

I'm angry at him for not winning that last fight, after he'd been victorious over so much else.

I'm angry at him for not managing to overcome all the limitations of both our states -- and my own damned lack of Talent -- and make it possible for me to see him vividly.

I'm angry that I'm alone, when I should be living joyously with the love of my life.



I'm angry because there's not a damn fucking thing I can do to bring him back, because I've wanted so little in this life and the thing I wanted most of all was wrenched away from me, and there wasn't anything I could do to make a difference. I could only hold him as he died.



I'm angry because he's right here beside me, aching for me, for my pain, for our separation, and I can feel him just enough to know it, but not enough to savor him fully.

For almost two and a half years now, my "best" alternative to pain has been numbness. I have not been entirely without pleasure or happiness, but they have been comparatively rare -- and have often been "paid for" with an intensification of pain in the aftermath. Numbness has been safer.

But of course that hasn't been entirely clear to me. I've been functioning emotionally on a rather primitive level: deep in pain or avoiding pain -- and numbness has often been preferrable to brief or shadowed pleasure.

Except that now I'm slowly waking up to the fact that numbness is not the same as pleasure, nor happiness, nor satisfaction, nor relaxation. . . and I'm missing those feelings, those experiences.

I'm missing them enough that I might be ready to face experiencing them without Him here to share them with me.

And almost ready to not feel guilty about it.

An LJ friend shared this in a locked post (locked for personal spiritual observances, not this text). She didn't know the source.

I'm not feeling the pain of grief right now, but this so gorgeously and vividly speaks to the past couple of years, I wanted to re-post it.

( Lament for a God-King )

"I have of late--but
wherefore I know not--lost all my mirth, forgone all
custom of exercises; and indeed it goes so heavily
with my disposition that this goodly frame, the
earth, seems to me a sterile promontory. . .



For the past couple of months I've felt as if I've reached the "Acceptance" phase of my grieving for Lohain. His loss is no longer a sharp and constant pain. I'm used to his absence; it has become normal to me. I no longer spend hours a day dwelling on his death and all that I lost.

And yet. . . .

I can't say that I've fully accepted my own ongoing life.

I'm sure unemployment doesn't help.
For the past few weeks I've felt like I'm losing the battle with entropy.
My projects are stalled out, my spiritual life the tiniest trickle of energy.

It's hard to bring myself to care.

There is no joy in my life, and I don't know where or how to find it.

Some days it feels as if when Lohain left his body he took all my joy, all my capacity for joy, with him.

I no longer weep every day, or even every week. But I no longer sing, I seldom laugh.
I'm not happy.

I just am.

At the same time, I've been making some spiritual breakthroughs that hint at deeper, older issues which are finally surfacing for me to deal with. I'm certain that's part of what's making it hard right now. The issues are ones of restraint, of inhibition, of denial. I think I'm finally starting to face the roots of the semi-paralysis that has dogged me all my life. Unfortunately, the process seems to be exacerbating my desire to crawl into a den, tuck my head under my tail, and hope it will all just pass over me, or that I'll simply go into a deep sleep and be able to avoid it.

It's all tangled up together, and I am really, realy missing the energy and encouragement of my yang warrior-king.

[Who appears at my elbow, his eyebrow raised, when I write about him as if he is not here, not ready and willing to help me.]


And to go back to my original thought when I started this post: I not only have no joy in my life right now, part of me feels indifferent about ever experiencing joy again. Or maybe I'm just too afraid to expose myself to the implications of the lack, and end up grieving about that too. Or I'm afraid of what it will mean if I do experience joy without him in my life.


I don't like my life very much right now.

I haven't liked it much since he left me.

I feel like all I can do is keep moving forward, doing the best I can to live as richly as I can. I can not give in to the grief. I can not give in to the gray. I can not give in to entropy and the desire to take false refuge in slumber, in hibernation.


But gods, do I miss the feeling of his arms around me. . .

Two years ago, uncrowned_king died in my arms.

He died peacefully. He died bravely. He died surrounded by love.

His death released him from a body that was a prison.
His death released him to regain the wholeness of his self.

His death tore apart my heart and soul and made something new of me.

It is not an initiation either of us sought. But since there was no escaping the ravens who came for him, we strive to do the best we can with the knife-edged gifts we were given.


Parted from me and never parted.
Never and always touching and touched.

The slow passing of the days since his death ease my pain, begin to blur the memories, and bring me steadily closer to our reunion. Between here and there, between now and what is to come, there is much for me to do. Most days I still wish on some level for that time to be short, but I no longer resent my life. I owe myself and my daughter and him and the world the best of what I have to give, the best I can be.



I believe this will be my last formal grieving post. Not because I no longer care, but because I do continue to move forward. My thanks and blessings to all my friends here who have been patient and supportive during this time. Your kindness and compassion have meant more to me than you can ever know.




And yes. . . I am crying.

Two weeks from today it will be the second anniversary of Lohain's death. A week or so after that it will be the third anniversary of our first meeting, our first kiss.

It would not be an understatement to say that my life was utterly transformed by each of those events, and that where I am now would be almost inconceivable without having gone through both of them.

My grief continues its gradual, meandering journey of healing. It's a process, not a specific point one reaches. Today I marked a new milestone in that journey: I created a playlist for him/us that is all happy songs -- 45 of them (okay, 42 and three quotes). That would have been impossible a year ago at this time. Even six months ago I needed to have the acknowledgement of the loss and a voice for my pain. Now, I'm leaving that pain behind most of the time. (I don't think it will ever entirely go away.)

Releasing the pain does not mean releasing him. I didn't understand that when I was in the earliest stages of starting to feel better. It felt then as if not hurting as much would mean that he was less important to me. It turns out that the pain is its own thing. My connection with Lohain is separate. The diminishment of the pain does not mean the loss of the connection. If I were a different person, with a different spirituality and need to release the relationship in order to "move on with my life" perhaps it would be different.

Instead, the freedom from pain means that I can concentrate more clearly on my spiritual path and the ongoing connection with him through spirit, instead of having the work make me even more intensely aware of the separation.