I suppose I have been in the doldrums for a while.
Like Milo in The Phantom Tollbooth (a book I love), I’m trying to think (think really hard) my way out of it. Fingers crossed.
That said, any thoughts will not do. I’ve been thinking about how I don’t have anything new to say, other people have said everything better, or no one is going to care. None of this will get the car moving again. Maybe it’s not exactly about thinking, it’s about doing. Just do a thing.
So, here’s what I’m doing since I’ve been thinking a great deal about death, loss, and grief. I’m rereading Memento Mori: The Art of Contemplating Death to Live a Better Life. I’ve mentioned it before, but now I’m going to do some of the writing prompts, and some of those, I’ll post here.
Today’s prompt:
First, I realize that writing about death may not seem the best way to drive out of the Doldrums! (Hahahaha!) Well, this is how I roll. So…
I want to write about my first experience with death even though I have no clear memory of it. And it is a death that many can relate to–a family pet. A man on a motorcycle shot our dog. I write about it because of the impact it had on our family. My mother already suffered from what was probably post-partum depression, and she loved that dog. I’d even say she loved that dog more than us, and she was still struggling with the death of her brother a few years before.
My parents’ marriage was doomed from the start, but this death pushed it over the edge, and we didn’t talk about it. I was only three. So I’m not sure what they would’ve said to me. But even when I was older, I knew not to ask. At least, not to ask Dad. When did Dad and I ever talk about anything difficult? Almost never.
Do you want to answer Joanna’s question? Feel free to share it in the comments or in your journal. It’s a conversation I’m always willing to have.
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Maybe I’m closer to leaving the Doldrums.
Marta Pelrine-Bacon 
The first encounter with death that I remember was the night the lady across the street showed up at our door in the middle of the night with her kids and asked if they could stay with us for a few hours. Her husband had shot himself to death with a shotgun. After the kids were back with their mother, some of the grownups said it was suicide and some said he had dropped the gun, it had slid across the floor, slammed into a cabinet, and gone off. But most thought that was a story so the insurance would pay out, which it wouldn’t if it was suicide.
Grownups talked pretty openly about everything but sex in front of kids back then. If we asked questions, it all shut down. If we didn’t say anything, the attitude seemed to be that we didn’t understand what was being said. So a quiet kid heard a lot.
Oh, I tell a lie: That was the first encounter with HUMAN death that I remember. This was before humane traps, so I saw dead mice in traps. I thought mice were sweet, but they carry disease and spoiled the food and paper goods, so we always had traps out, and it always hurt my heart when one got caught.
<sarcasm> Aren’t you glad you asked? <end sarcasm>
I AM GLAD I ASKED!
And that’s a helluva story. Jeez. I feel for everyone involved in that tragedy. And what a lot to hear as a child. But I remember hearing so much because no one thought I was listening or understood.
“I’ve been thinking about how I don’t have anything new to say, other people have said everything better, or no one is going to care.”
I suffer from that same line of thinking and am unable to write because of it. I’m trying to convince myself to just write for my own sake and if anyone wants to join in, that’s a bonus. So far, I haven’t been very convincing.
Because my parents were in their forties when they adopted me, I went to a lot of funerals as a kid. I think I became numb to the whole thing so I don’t really remember the first one. Losing my biological father was the most difficult death I think because we didn’t have enough time to really get to know each other. But then, losing a dog, that’s a whole other level of grief because they are such a daily presence in your life, a steadying presence for me. They represent 10 to 15 years of an era of my life that will never repeat itself, a self that no longer exists.
Well, I hope you write because I also think my thinking as you quoted is wrong. I think about that when I’m depressed or overly anxious. I think less about that when I’m happy. That seems like a certain part of my brain lying to me. Or at least, i don’t think that negativity is the truth.
I hope you write.
And uuugh…I love our dogs so much. The grief of saying goodbye to any one of them is hard. So hard.
I hope your reading and writing helps you find your way out of the doldrums. I know that keeping quiet about what’s bothering me never helps me move forward.