Six Penny Opera

Smile, Frown, Repeat those, The End…

Those times when you are telling a story and a person in the room has that glazed looked in their eyes makes you wonder.  Am I getting my tale across in a way that is touching them or do they have allergies and need to sneeze?  Last night while I stood their talking about life, or the ending of life; there was a woman 20 feet away from me who I believe was suffering from the former.  My story was bringing out an emotional response.  I know I was having an emotional response to her reactions.

Why people wanted to listen, I have no idea.  The story I was weaving wasn’t something I would have signed up for, but it is the life I have been given.  The unvarnished truth about how death and loss has brought me at times close to the point of madness only to get brief reprieves because I find some point of light to stare at.

When I talk about my daughter, you can see people get very uncomfortable.  Listening to that pain come pouring out affects people in ways that scare them.  Maybe angers them when I get to the part about my ex.  And a little bit of the depression I feel get transferred to them for a few minutes.  Wondering how they might react to circumstances that they would never wish on even their worst of enemies.  A life that could be theirs in a different universe.

By the time I was done talking, my body felt like it had run a marathon followed by a sparing round with whomever is the current Heavy-Weight Champion of the World.  13 hours later, my 25 minute talk which turned into 45 because I didn’t want to stop talking about my daughter, still has me weak, drained from the emotions that came from me and afterwards from people who asked some significant questions.

A women introduced herself and told me she had lost two of her children early in their lives.  She then did the thing I never know how to respond to, hugged me.  An almost tight, let me take some of this pain from you type grip around my shoulders.  I winced a bit because you can’t see the bandages under my sweater and pants, those scars are as hidden from view as the emotional ones to someone not looking.  She wanted me to know that she had kept quiet about her grief for years and only recently was able to make steps towards dealing with it.  Getting help she needed a long time ago.

I could only stand stone-faced at the gentleman whose daughter is friends with my niece.  He made a remark about how cruel is was what my ex did.  I don’t know how to react to something like that.

The questions and conversations about what I had said must have made for interesting drives home for some of those families.  It must have been overload for the teenagers and carefully worded replies from their parents.

The most normal reaction I saw was the people who couldn’t make eye-contact with me afterwards.  Some of their shame for being a willing participant in my very public display showing through.  I wish I had thought to put a stand of Kleenex for sale outside the room!

Talking about the future is hard, I’m not sure where it is going.  Reliving the past is excruciating.  That memory set I carry with it’s matching luggage of depression and fear.  Available on Amazon as we speak!  Low, Low pricing…

Last night’s part of my journey was about offering something I couldn’t to another.  Hope.

Who knows what later today will bring?  The future is a always evolving combination of love, hate, peace and at times turmoil.  Today I’m at peace with my world.  At least until something from work upset that apple cart!  I hope you are finding some peace as well.

In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Six of One, Half a Dozen of the Other.”

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