Coping Mechanisms

Coping mechanisms. 

Every individual has their own way of dealing with the things that life throws at them. Grief, loss, pain, heartache – the way these things are handled varies from person to person. Some ways are healthy, other ways…not so much.

I can recall the last few weeks of when she was still alive. Different family members took turns of twelve hour increments in pairs watching over her. There was one family member whom I was most often paired with when watching over her who’s coping mechanism was laughter.

To watch the throes of death consume one so loved in a slow manner is extremely heart breaking. In my mind, it seems like the only options of dealing with such an emotion is either going mad with grief, or completely disconnecting any emotions whatsoever. This family member dealt with their grief and pain by laughing.

Please don’t misunderstand me. I am not saying that their way of coping was disrespectful, inconsiderate, or anything of that nature. It’s what they felt best to do in their situation. Instead of breaking down and crying, they took the situation and things that were happening, and found a reason to laugh (to be cheerful, you could even say) about it all.

I have my own ways of dealing with everything that has gone on. I can’t say they’re exactly healthy – or good, for that matter – but it’s what keeps me sane. There have been times when I’ve been at home and said something that I found to be amusing and witty; I laugh at what I had said, but then suddenly in the midst of the laughter, my eyes are filled with tears, and I feel if I just let loose, I would collapse on the floor, sobbing uncontrollably. Usually I’m able to keep my head and stop the laughter before it goes one way or the other.

I know that I can’t break down. This grief is such a burden; this broken heart so heavy. But to dwell on it too much would mean going mad, in quite the literal sense. As far as ways of dealing with it, I see it as this: I could be either a depressed cutter, or a depressed drunk. Thankfully, I’m so vehemently opposed to the consumption of any alcohol whatsoever, that I've resorted to the former option. Clearly neither option is a healthy one, but I would dare argue that the one I rely on is better than the one I've chosen to abstain from (for numerous reasons, obviously).

Anyways, there you have it. People have different ways of coping with things. Mine may not be the best, but it’s what I know. Deadened emotions over madness.

Tiredness

I'm tired.

Of life, of emotions, of people, of everything.  And all this mental (even spiritual, I suppose) tiredness affects me physically.  I can get twelve hours of sleep, and still be tired all day.  I am tired all day, every day, no matter what.

If I could, I would just break all communication.  From everybody.  But that's impossible.  I've managed to keep it down to a minimum.  Only the people that I carpool with to school, or have classes with, are the ones I still talk to.  And that's because I have to.  If it were up to me, I'd completely ignore them as well.  But that would just be downright rude, seeing as how I come into physical contact with them.

I'm tired of people hearing what I say to them, but not listening to what I have to say.  There is a difference. I can say so much, yet nothing at all.  I can stay silent, but speak volumes.  Yet so often it seems that even when I do speak, no one listens.

I'm tired of having to say "That's not it," or "You don't understand" to people who clearly do not understand.  My lack of ability to fall asleep until after 2 a.m. is not because of a poor sleeping schedule.  It's because the night holds many terrors and I have to be dead tired before turning the light off.  It's also because a broken heart holds constant restlessness both in, and out of sleep.

I'm tired of talking.  People keep asking me how I'm doing, or what's wrong.  And I repeat the same damn thing over and over and over again.  But speaking about the same thing every time isn't going to change it.  It certainly will do no good for the person of inquiry.  Besides, since when has talking about a problem ever fixed it??  Writing will put things into perspective, but speaking will only more solidly confirm or make certain that which is already present.  And I don't want that.

I'm tired of having so-called friends who bother to talk to me, but stay in their same selfish mindset like the rest of the world.  I'm not saying they don't care, but good God, when I try to communicate things about myself as a person, and you go right ahead and contradict me or just sweep aside what I've just said because you think what you know is best, then please call yourself an acquaintance and not a friend.  Because friends are people who listen and accept things, not ignore and shape everything into their own perspective.

I'm tired of feeling so apathetic all the time.  Getting up isn't too hard (at least, not as hard as it was years ago), but finding the motivation to care is hard.  I don't care about failing an exam because I haven't studied enough.  I don't care about the incompleteness of my homework for my favourite class.  I don't even care if my sister hasn't called me in a while because she's been too busy with her life.

I'm tired.  I just want to be left alone.  I want to sleep forever and never wake up.

*A Dream

I walked into the dimly lit room. Unlike most nights, my little Café Kafka on the coast of Spain was actually crowded. Varieties of military men from many different countries were talking and laughing in quite a jovial manner. Rather shocking, I must admit, that they could still enjoy themselves with all that they have seen. War is a hard time for all.

I walked to the counter and ordered my usual sarsaparilla. I turned around with my drink so I could observe those around me. A few of the fellows also standing around the counter talking kept glancing at me. In a few minutes time, they sauntered over and attempted to engage me in conversation. They even were assisted by the bar keep. I did my best to sway them from their obvious goal, but it was to little avail.

In the midst of my polite, yet cold responses to these men with dishonourable intentions, a man sitting at the end of the counter interrupted their conversation by ordering a hot black coffee, two spoons of sugar, and a scoop of ice from the bar tender. This caused the men to stop speaking – and me to look in the direction of the voice – for none of us had noticed his presence until that moment. He smiles politely at all of us as he is handed his unusual order of a drink.

This causes the soldier boys to remember my presence and they once again begin to speak to me. They even ask me to dance, to which I of course decline. They still continue to press me. All of a sudden, the mysterious man at the end of the counter speaks up. “Hey, leave her alone, will you fellas? If she says no, she means no.” I smile at him gratefully.

He speaks even more. “Say, you wouldn't mind giving a lonely soldier a break, and give me the honour of a dance, would ya?” Before I am able to say anything in response, the boys crowded near me begin to mock and scorn him. He doesn't reply to them, and I am given no chance to speak my decision.

So I continue to sit and drink and face all the other strangers in the café who are sitting, dancing, or conversing with each other. Finally the group of soldiers begin to let off the stranger, and begin telling me that I’m smart for choosing to not dance with anyone, as opposed to dancing with “that loser” as they so spitefully call him.

I say nothing to them, but only look. I set my glass down on the counter, walk over to the end of the counter where this man is sitting in the shadows, sit down, and ask him if I can try his coffee. A wonderful smile slowly spreads over his face as he hands me his cup. The group of boys are stunned to silence. I sip his drink. The strange combination of hot, cold, and sweet shocks my taste buds in a delightful manner.

We begin to converse. I find out he joined the military out of love for his country…which is my country. He also comes from a long line of military men, and wanted to continue that tradition. As we continue to talk, we discover just how much we have in common. Even hailing from the same state back in the grand ol’ U.S. of A.

Because evening has approached, the band begins to pick up its musical pace. I speak as I hold out my hand. “I believe you asked me for a dance?” That gorgeous smile appears again. “Why, I believe I did,” he says. He takes my hand, and whisks me out on the dance floor as Louis Prima’s Sing, Sing, Sing is started by the band.

As we step onto the dance floor, that same group of boys begin to jeer and yell at us. He tries to remain discreet, but I see his actions anyways. He’s staring them down every chance he gets in the midst of our swings and turns. And it works. Their mocking begins to die down, and soon stops altogether.

As our feet are moving as fast as possible, we dance in an unbelievable manner. Gliding, twirling, swinging like no other couple ever has. A connection that cannot be explained snapped together the moment our feet hit that dance floor. We are out dancing all other couples there.

As the dance is nearing its end, a siren rings out. A messenger boy from one our American military branches comes rushing in to the café. And then more messenger boys from other country’s military charge in as well. Each begins to announce in his own language that the siren call is not just for French soldiers, but for ALL soldiers of all countries present.

Soldiers begin running out, pouring out of the café. All prior activity is forgotten with the sounding of this reminder of war. My soldier runs out as well. But I run out after him. Before he turns round a corner on the street, I call out to him. “Bill! Wait!” He stops. “When will I see you again?!” I cry out. He smiles that heart-melting smile again. “Tell you what! A year and a day from now! At this very place, on the hour when we first met! Is it a date?” I nod and smile. “A year! I’ll be waiting!” But as I drifted off with my sentence drowning in the noise of all the organized chaos of rushing military men, he had already disappeared.

‘A year and a day from now,’ I think to myself, ‘On June 6, 1945. I’ll be waiting, Bill. I’ll be waiting.’


*I had this dream on the night of 14 June 2012, but forgot to post it here.