Stories

Christopher Koch remarked in an interview that there was a natural order to things that meant that the number three was important: beginning, middle and end; childhood, middle age and old age. When writing a novel, it was important, he felt, to keep that thought firmly in mind to enable the reader to feel connected with the rhythm of life; the natural order of life. He didn't use those words exactly but loving being in nature as he did, I think he'd be all right with them.

My first thought was about the age thing. If I am middle aged, at what point am I classified as 'old'?  Then, I thought about how his comment related to the craft of writing. I thought about my own 'story' as told on this blog and I realized that I had been in the middle of something. Lately, I've felt that I've moved out of the middle stage and have moved onto resolution and conclusion; conceivably 'the end'.

Well then, what was the 'climax' of the story? At what point did we leave the 'old world' forever, making room for the new one to form? If the 'crisis' was that I was losing my sense of belief in an ongoing 'forever type' union was there a 'climax' of some sort? (Well, actually, yes there was but I won't be writing about that here. Let's just say that was a deeply revelatory moment brought on by a piece of literature that prompted a union with my 'best self'. And, just to make it more complicated, what if the climax was that he had a revelatory moment of his own unbeknownst to me where he elected to be his 'best self'??)

How does the new world look, feel and function differently to the way it did before? And, how exactly did I move from the middle, through the crisis (you can't go back, under or around a crisis; you can only go through it) towards 'the end'/denouement of the story? It's a little hard to say and that is why novelists take 'life' and massage it, much like a plasterer works with putty to make some form and shape.

For many, many months there I felt that I was going through something very profound; something challenging and potentially crippling; that I was stuck in some sort of holding pattern much like a captive is held hostage and awaits the next move, never at all sure if there will be a next move. Much like anyone who faces a crisis, whether it be an external or internal crisis (or both), there is an immense sense of struggle, confusion, angst and dismay, to the point where there are moments when it feels that something has to 'give'; something has to change; someone has to change. Whatever. It can't stay this way for too much longer. That's the thought one has. You see characters reach this point in movies all the time until...something gives.

I watched The Upside of Anger last night and looked forward to my favorite moment. Costner, until now angelically patient with the woman who he has befriended (at the point where her husband has gone missing, presumably with his Swedish secretary), kicks down the bathroom door and tells her that he is sick of being her "bitch". It's a great moment. It's the moment when things change. He leaves and he refuses to take her calls. The boot is suddenly on the other foot and she's the one making the advances. She's the one making the calls to him; calls that he refuses to take. When he returns finally it is on his terms; a new sense of respect for his place in her life has evolved. It's enabled her to soften a little. She's still angry and sad at this point of the movie, but she's learning to take control of her emotions, step by step - a step critical to her progress.

In the process of coming to terms with my husband's illness the first instinct was simply to survive. I needed to find a way to stay as whole as I could whilst he was absent from me; absent in the sense that it was clear that I needed to take care of my self. As I learned to do this, I was angry sometimes for sure. Except towards the beginning when I was so confused I had to emote several times, the anger was silent. I didn't talk to him about it, since it was clear he wasn't in a position to hear my pain.

So, I talked a little with others and ultimately I talked to myself - in the shower, on paper, in diaries; here. I did what I knew to do to aid myself, not in the least sure how long I might need to do that, but knowing that I could do only what I could do. I put one foot in front of the other and trusted in the great unknown that there would one day come a 'peace'. In what form that 'peace' would come, I did not know for sure.

The honest truth is that I considered a path alone, if need be. My pain was immense and the thought of remaining in this 'middle' troubled me a great deal. I doubted my fortitude to remain in the middle endlessly. Many 'characters' do you may notice, because the alternative to some sort of 'change' or resolution is to continue to climb to higher and higher levels of crisis management, and no-one can sustain that sort of activity forever.

I read, and then I read some more. I figured by immersing myself in ideas of philosophy and psychology, and by reading novels, some 'truth' would help me. It seemed a better idea than giving up. Somewhere in there, things started to shift. My husband began to come closer to me. I started to become closer to him. We had wonderful conversations; conversations that opened us up to one another and left the vulnerability exposed, in a good way. As silly as it sounds, we 'found' one another; noticed that we were still, in fact, 'there'.

I read in the past few days that in some grief/crises type processes, the behavior of someone can almost insist that others remove themselves. It's not a choice thing on the part of a person but rather a reaction to the other. This happened. Who moved back to the other first? It's almost impossible to say at this juncture. I can't necessarily see it that clearly. I think I learned how to be empathic to him and he began to understand/'see' that I needed him in a particular way. We learned to dance smoothly again and to accept one another for the people that we are. Perhaps, he healed, too. Perhaps he learned to look at life in a new way and to choose life. Perhaps the rest from the rigors of his life invigorated him and he simply did what he needed to do for himself before he could go about healing me. Perhaps, in the interim, I learned skills that enabled me to work on my own for a time. It's all entirely plausible.

 Now, are we still 'in the middle'? I don't believe that we are. 'The end' relates, I suppose, to the end of the novel or the movie, or the story or the end of a life. So, in real life we're not at the end. Yet, we have moved from the middle of the crisis, for sure. For there to be an end to a story, either there is a reversal or a recognition; that is, either there is a new status quo or somebody learns something. In real life, we're sweet together again; accommodating, kind and loving. Not all the time, mind you, thank goodness. He's begun to be quite the top again now and I just love it. It suits me dandy to give up control; to do as told. It arouses him to throw me about the bed, to mitigate my senses; to roar in my ear. It's a life force for me.

How, indeed, do you tell the story when the story has not reached its end? If I were writing the script I could write up scenes of my life, of this 'crisis', and there would be a suitable, satisfying and sustaining conclusion. The changes in the status quo would be subtle for sure, but the changes in the characters would be more profound. You don't go through the eye of the storm and not learn important lessons. Stories demand this sort of reversal and/or recognition. In real life, of course, the story continues, which is why this web journal goes on and on and on...