God Approved

How can it be that longing and anger can occupy the same space?  That I simultaneously miss and loathe you?  Even more puzzling is that after nearly four years I am still unable to shake free of either, and I am more than a little concerned at the amount of anger that fills me.  I never thought myself to be a person who harbors bad feelings toward anyone; live and let live, learn and move on.  But you… you won’t release me.  Is it a final punishment for my having not been perceptive enough?  Eh, just another question that I ask of you knowing full well I’ll never hear your answer.

Many believe we live parallel to the deceased, that they never leave us.  I’m not interested in any of that.  Frankly, I hope they don’t.  I hope there is more to Heaven than living alongside the brokenhearted.

To say aloud that you’ve had a “visit” from a dead person is to seal your fate as certifiably crazy.  She gone.  So I don’t. But I have… had a visit or three.  Maybe.  There are a lot of theories on this.  I might have studied some of them.  Many people make a living as clairvoyants.  Many believe we live parallel to the deceased, that they never leave us.  I’m not interested in any of that.  Frankly, I hope they don’t.  I hope there is more to Heaven than living alongside the brokenhearted.  What I have settled on is this:  God Approved Moments.  In order for me to make sense of Corey watching over us, I have wrapped my small, simple mind around the idea that Corey gets God approved moments to look in on us.  Whether those are moments of triumphs, day-to-day life, or when God sees fit to allow Corey to let us know he saw that, that is what I am able to sink my teeth into. How else could Corey be free of this earthly world if he can see the hell that was brought on by his departure?  It seems logical to me that one who believes in Heaven and Hell, and Jesus and Satan, could also presume God would allow a visit in this age, post Bible.

Each of my three visits have been in the form of a dream.  Sounds hokey, huh?  I get it.  I see you back peddling.  Yep, certifiable.  Maybe so, I mean how sane can I be, I’m a suicide survivor.  That alone does a hell of a lot of damage.  But, just for the sake of the read, let’s carry on.  I’ve never experienced such reality in a dream, such detail, and the retelling is a memory that occurred in my consciousness not my subconscious. In each of these “visits” I command myself to pay attention to him – you may never see him again. I turn all of my attention to him with the intention of soaking it all up.  Leave no image incomplete, no sound, no smell, no feel.  I give myself directives. “You need to go to him.”  “He needs your hug.”  “Turn towards him while he’s talking.”  I can tell you how many steps it took me to round that side of the bed, how far up on tip toe I needed to be in order to wrap my arms around his neck and kiss his chiseled cheek.  I can smell his deodorant, his starched dress shirt, his winter fresh gum (you weren’t fooling me, I always knew the gum was in effort to hide the fact that you had been dipping).  I vividly remember telling myself to turn to him as he drove and I rode shotgun.

I’ve had several dreams in which he is in since his death, but only three that are God approved moments.  That might satisfy the longing momentarily if it weren’t for the anger.  I am always so mad.  I don’t want to go to him.  I don’t want to hug him.  I don’t want to hear him out. I don’t want to turn all of my attention towards him as he drives our Wrangler.  I’m pissed off.  It’s time he listens to me.  Look what you’ve done!  But I command myself to do it because that is what he needs, and I love him.

So I continue to occupy the space between, next to longing and anger.  Peace evades me despite my constant pursuit.  For every year of marriage that I send through the shredder, questioning if I was ever an equal partner, if I was ever worthy of the truth, I can just as quickly turncoat and defend them all to his death when really all I want is one visit that doesn’t leave me feeling worse about myself.