Mourning

The Jewish mourning process is supposedly set up to help people mourn in stages. Five stages from what I've read in all those miserable books. Filled with rules and laws that no real human can follow. Maybe guidelines or traditions. Who knows.

The first stage is called ANINUT (or aninus for the Ashkenazic Americans). One who is in this in-between stage is called an ONEN. This person is free of all positive commandments. The law was established with the knowledge that all focus should be on the immediate death. I was in ONEN status for six hours.

It's not easy to get that call. And I have gotten it a few times over the years. The "you need to come now" call. And every time, I fly to the nursing home or hospital. Wherever we are spending our lives during those days. Driving like a maniac. Wondering is this it. Do I turn off the music. Do I run home and cut my nails. And, yeah, sometimes it was pretty scary. Walking into a hospital room. My family surrounding a large bed. With a very small person. My mother gasping for air.

But she has always made it through.

Except this time.

This was it. The final call. The call you think you have been preparing for your whole life. But when it comes. Total shock. Denial. Flying down the streets one last time. Maybe it is a false alarm. Maybe you misheard. Doubting your own ears. Your own comprehension. But you did hear it clearly. "Come now. Come now. Your mother is not doing well. You need to come now." And then within a few seconds, "she's very cold. She's dead." How can one deny such definitive words.

I entered the room and my mother was no longer. She was cold and grey. Her trach was disconnected. A gaping hole by her neck. Her eyes were slightly open. Limbs no longer stiff. Machines still beeping in the room. Feeding tubes and IV’s reaching to the floor. No longer attached. My father sitting by her side. Holding her hand. Crying silently.

My usual composure shattered. My cries uncontained. Sobbing. My mother died. My mother is dead. She lays before me but she is not there. I am motherless. I am an orphan. Have I willed this. This is what I always wanted. Freedom. From pain. For her. For me. Freedom from responsibility. So then why wasn't I ready. Why the intense shock. The overwhelming pain. How could I feel so alone. When she hasn't really been here for a long time. Maybe never.

Rabbi comes in and says we need to cover her. It's time. I scream and yell how I am not ready. I touch her feet. Something that she has always hated. Earlier years complaining. Recent years a grimace on her face. I stroke her face. Kiss her cheeks. There is no soul inside this hollow body. My mother died. My mother is dead.

We plan the funeral for later the same day. Allowing just enough time for family to come in from New York. The funeral home comes to wheel my mother's body out. All the doors are closed. We follow in sorrow. The tears just won't stop. At home, I shower and cut my nails. Not knowing when I will do them next. I sit on my bed to write my eulogy. Still regretting not speaking at Bubby's funeral. I will speak no matter how hard. No matter how painful.

At the funeral home, my siblings and family finally arrive. Thirty minutes after the service was supposed to begin. We all follow the casket. Of my dead mother. We enter a room filled with people. No seats left. People standing in every space available. No spare room to be found. In a box. In the front of the room. A large box. Way too big. My mother is dead. Inside this casket. A golden star of David on a blue cloth. Inside is my mother. My mother died. My mother is dead.

At the cemetery. We must rush. Have to beat the clock. Make it before the day becomes tomorrow. Lots of Rabbinic advisement. A rush job. Get the box in the ground. Cover it as fast as possible. So many people surrounding. All happening so fast. And then my brother says Kadish. For the first time. Something that he will have to say three times a day for the next year. Mourning publicly in front of a gathering of ten men. A minyan. Never to be missed. The mourners are ushered through two lines of people. One for the men and one for the women. And then we sit on the ground. Take off our shoes. We are officially in stage two.

The second stage includes the first three days of SHIVA, which immediately follow the burial. In an uncommon way. We started our Shiva at the cemetery. So as not to miss a minute. Delaying would cost us to sit Shiva another day. As we approach my father's house. Formerly my parents’ house, people are already on the porch. Waiting to comfort us. The mourners.

The point of this second stage is to allow mourners to experience their grief. Humans need time to be angry. To feel their feelings. Whatever they are. With no one to dictate how to behave. Mirrors are covered. Low chairs around the house. Hands to be washed. Washing away impurity. An egg to be eaten with bread. Symbolizing the circle of life. Perhaps. And in our case, due to the upcoming holiday, Shiva will only be during those three days. People will come in droves throughout the day. To comfort. Some to listen. Many to speak about themselves and their own pain or loss.

From early morning until late at night. I sat in that low chair. And I felt nothing. Empty. I laughed with some. But I could not remember any good memories to share. The disappointment in the picture painted of my mother. The careless things people said. The constant "well meaners." And yes. There were some who made a difference. But mostly numb. Until the night. When the house emptied out. When we laid in our beds. And we cried. I cried into my pillow. I sobbed. My mother died. My mother is dead. I will never see her again. I wasn't there enough. Who am I now. Without her.

The third stage is the reminder of the SHIVA. Literally translated as "seven." Referring to the seven days. This was more of a quiet stage for us. Unimaginable if we had to sit for an actual seven days.

The fourth stage of mourning is called the SHLOSHIM. Literally translated as "thirty". This stage refers to the thirty days from the burial on. Including both the second and third stage. I am now in Shloshim. The laws are not as strict as Shiva but they are still existent. Less joy. Less of everything. This numb feeling still overtaking.

And then she finally leaves. I am finally alone. After two intense weeks filled with people. I am back in my own place. My own bed. All I want to do is feel. So I open the link. And I watch the funeral. I cry out as if it is all fresh and new. It is fresh. I have not had a minute to feel anything. My mother died. My mother is dead. And now I am lost. I lay in my bed and I don't know what to do.

The fifth and supposed final stage is the year of mourning. It will be a long year ahead. Decisions to me made. Life to adjust to. New reality. New existence. Potential. Freedom.

Maybe the stages aren't so bad after all.

I was the Shabbat Imma in Gan. My mom always came. 

My Country

It's moments like these that make me rethink life. I'm not such a spiritual person. But it is starting to feel like the end of days. Like the end is near. If there is another plan. It feels like it's about to happen. I sit here and think how I am in the wrong place. I shouldn't be here. I should be there. Standing tall with my people. Israelis.

Is it bad that it's not my Jewish pride, rather my Israeli pride that is itching to get out. That is desperate to go. To defend a country I love. A country that is my real home. To wave the flag and wear the colors. Blue and white. And show the world that we can not be defeated. We will not be defeated.

I wish to get on a plane and fly halfway across the world to be in the right place. The place where I belong. To be steeped in the culture. Soaked with the quality and influence of the land. Surrounded by endless beauty. Enveloped in the warmth and palm trees. I yearn to hear the language spoken on every street-corner. Hebrew. To touch the ground. The stone of the old city. I wish to argue with the tomato vendor in the shuk. Machane Yehuda. To smell the aromas of freshly baked rugelach and lachmagine.

The longing overwhelms me. And the anger. The anger towards the rest of the world. The media. Politicians. The average Joe. Who turn a blind eye. Refuse to see the truth. That a country smaller than Rhode Island is under constant attack. Civilian stabbings. Bomb scares. The feeling of chaos. Feeling unsafe. The fear of the unknown. The stench of death in every city. The blood pouring through the drains.

I look around and see indifference. And I wonder. Am I just like these people. Watching my country go down in flames. And not doing anything to stop it. A bystander. What am I doing to make a difference.

Distorted Religion Part 2

Would you ever park in a handicapped spot without tags
Do you run red lights
Drive through stop signs
Would you you ever hit a parked car and then drive off
How about a hit and run

What color is your shirt
Do you cover your head
Send your children to same-gender private schools
Consider yourself CHOSEN
"A light unto the nations"

Go ahead and leave a nasty message on my voicemail
Or better yet threaten me
Tell me what I am doing is wrong
And that I have a lot to think about
Who the hell do you think you are

I'm very aware that my mother hasn't been home in a year
Thanks for reminding me
And showing me the proper way to be
How to lead my life
You are a fantastic example

Threatening to call my Rabbi
What a move
As if we were playing chess
Trying to knock my piece off the board
When I was never really playing

You think you are representing Orthodoxy
In truth you are constantly distorting reality
This is not the religion that I subscribe to
You pervert the world
Create a nasty image

So make sure that your elbows are hidden
Your collarbone is suffocated by fabric
And not a single hair is showing
Eat only the strictest kashrut possible
And wait the longest possible time after Shabbos

I aspire to be just like you
As you spit in my face
And your husband tramples the Israeli flag
When your child destroys our property
I see where your priorities are

So go ahead and call my Rabbi
He's dealing with life and death
sometimes mine
He really cares about your law breaking
And petty behavior

Please keep calling me
Trying to prove your ways
You may as well hold a pillow over my face
Your suffocating life makes me ill
And I will never be like you

Distorted Religion

There's something seriously wrong with me. I feel like I can't hold back from saying what I think. Like my filter is completely not there.  And yes I know I rarely use it. But at least normally I am able to bite my tongue. Today, I am just on fire. I can blame this on the side effects of all the meds. That have completely wrecked my body. Or the lack of sleep. The nausea. But truthfully, I am just fed up.

It's people like you who make me hate this religion. Who push me away further and further. How dare you cover your hair. Your husband wears the uniform. Black and white. And yet you continue to look down on me. And then you call me judgemental. What happened to following the laws of the land. Your children are disrespectful and destructive. Your four year old constantly ruins our property. And all you do is laugh it off.

You think because you look the part that you can do whatever you want. It's not only about following god's law. Ever heard of treating others properly. Has that completely fallen off your radar. You think you know what's going on in someone's life. That you can make assumptions. Assessments. But you really have not a single clue. There are things that would make you sob your eyes out. You can't even begin to imagine what happens behind closed doors.

And the sick thing is that you of all people DO know. You have witnessed plenty. You are not new here. And I actually think you are a nice person. But how naive can you be. How can you make such statements. Life is fragile. And you never know what a person is going through. But go ahead. Be all high and mighty in your stockings and wig. Do you think that justifies your behavior. Of those like you. Do you actually think that this is what god had in mind.

How dare you call me judgemental. More like hateful. Disappointed. Let down. You and your kind are on this pedestal. You are supposed to be "chosen". You are supposed to be the pure ones. But instead you corrupt and pollute. Distort this religion. This is not what god intended. Not our tradition. You have created this world of us and them. And it's not ok. I refuse to subscribe to your distorted view. It's not authentic. Count me out.

You are lucky that there are people out there who save face. Who are kind. They don't look at my elbows. Or measure the length of my skirt. Their arms are open. Making this religion manageable for one small second. It's people like them that remind me that not everyone is like you. There is goodness and kindness. Generosity. They are non judgmental. And would never behave or speak the way you do. Their children are positive additions to society. And unlike you, they keep this religion going.

So go about your life. Be all high and mighty. Good luck with that.

F....enough with the yiddish names

How horrible is it that I'm jealous. I only met you once. We hung out at a bar in the city years ago. A lifetime ago. I wasn't such a fan. But then again, how many people do I really like. That doesn't say anything about you. Probably says more about me.

I'm envious of your bravery. The fact that your plan worked. You showed everyone. You no longer have to face your demons. It is the world who has to now look for answers. Pretend to understand what your life was about. Everyone else feels pain now. You are finally pain free. Don't people get that. You are free.

Is it terrible that I am happy for you. Envious of you. Wish I was as brave as you. Wish I could take that final leap. Never look back. People can talk about how you were at the peak of your life. Making a difference. Doing so well. Yada Yada. What do they really know. No one understands. No one knows what's going on deep on the inside. The outside is one big facade. You put a face on so that people can be around you. But maybe you can't be around them.

Maybe you survived just the right amount. Maybe some people aren't meant to live a long full life. Maybe some of us have already lived too long. Does anyone ever consider that. Sometimes, a long life is not in the cards. Not desired. Not something to aspire to. Some of us live day by day. Hour by hour. Minute to minute. Every day that we wake up is a miracle. Is torturous to get up and face the day. Face the world. Because you don't belong. You don't want to be there.

So to you, I say congratulations. On finally graduating. From this life. From this world. From your misery. To everyone else. I will continue to say. You have no idea. No idea what a person is. What they are made up of. Who they really are. Don't try to understand after the fact. It's too late. You can look for answers. Try to place blame. But the blame should be internal.

Life is not for everyone.

Empty Tears

The tears. They are tears that don't come often. They hide inside. Refuse to leave their post.

You were supposed to protect me. Supposed to love me forever. Never supposed to leave my side. You were supposed to be my best friend. To love me. Forever. You were supposed to keep me. To hold me and never let go. You were supposed to please me. You had one job. To love me. To see only me. As your one and only.

But you forgot. You forgot about our love. You forgot about me. You got distracted. You chose your religion. You saw my pain. You saw me cry. You knew how much I hurt. But you chose your religion. Every single time. Your empty religion. Empty words. Swaying back and forth. No meaning. All by rote. Because it's all you knew. You couldn't think for yourself. You couldn't choose me. You chose your shell instead.

I was in the goddamn hospital for ten days. You thought I was going to die. How could you not hold my hand. How could you not comfort me. I was dying. I had no family. You were supposed to be my family. My support. My anchor. So you said tehillim. I needed your hand. I needed your love. Not for you to be the hero. Where were you. I needed you to hold me. So what if I was a fucking niddah. Do you think it was right for me to call the rabbi and beg him. To tell you to hold my hand. Is that how life is supposed to be. Is that what my life should look like. Is that the life I signed up for.

Do you think about me. Do you realize that you have damaged me. As you live your pretty little life. In your pretty little house.

How could let me go through that day. Have a friend scrub me in the shower. To get off all the hospital markings. As I throw up all over myself. Throwing up my pills. And then your goddamn mother comes to pick me up. Do you not feel guilty. Not at all. Or have you conveniently forgotten. And then your mother let me lay on the floor and all those women commented how cute it was that she brought me with her to work. Or how about when she helped me get undressed. Or how about when your mother walked me down the steps and helped me dunk in the goddamn water. Do you know what that does to a person. She let me dunk once. Because I was too sick to dunk more than once. And then she dressed me. There you were. Fucking waiting outside the side door with a wheelchair to wheel me home. As I throw up outside the shul. For all the men to see this pathetic woman in a wheelchair throwing up.

Do you think about that night. How I went to the mikvah sick as a dog just so you would take care of me. Does that sit with you. Did it ruin your life. Or did you forget. Did you move on. And then you threw me away. I let my soul go. I let it fly away. You watched it shrivel. And then you stepped on it. And you did all in the name of religion. A religion I don't subscribe to. No thank you. You can keep it.

And now what. I'm supposed to just move on. Forget. Live. Keep moving. Keep plugging away at this life. Where are those tears. Where is that religion. Why is the emptiness always there. Let the soul back in.

Not so easy.

Publish

Every day I know I should write. I know I should clear my mind. Unburden my soul. And yet I'm blocked. Distracted. Unmotivated. Uninspired. Thoughts come to me in the shower. While driving. While painting. While laying in bed. But I can never bring myself to write them down. To clarify. To unleash. To let my mind unwind. It's as if I consciously choose to keep them internal. For fear of facing the truth. As if reality would stare at me back from the page. Grab my throat. Choke me. Suffocate me. Force me to face things. No avoidance allowed.

And yet life continues. Challenging me at every step. Blocking my every move. Never dull. No break. Even when I've received this forced break. Total removal of all outside responsibilities. Empty nest. Sudden quiet and silent life. Outsiders stepping in. Making decisions without all the facts. Orthodoxy at its best. 

Awake

Burnt out. Life cannot take a pause. No calm allowed. Tired. Fed up. Is there a message I am supposed to be seeing. I literally do not know how I keep moving. What is this miraculous source that keeps me going. What exactly is motivating me.

Dropped in a desert with no water. No food. No shelter.  No clothes. Nothing. Alone. And yet, I am that cactus. Functioning. Surviving. On the bare minimum. How is it possible. How have I not succumbed to my surroundings. How have I not given up yet.

You say that I am special.  That I have potential. All I can answer you is that I feel worthless. Unworthy. A waste of space. My purpose on this earth is to serve. To take care of others. To give. There is no real me. I am a shadow.

And this purpose that I have had my entire life is suddenly gone. Swept out from under my feet. Excused from all responsibility. Without choice. No warning. An empty nest. Barren. Others making decisions. Completely taken out of my hands. Unattached. Silent. Removed. Mute.

You have perverted life. Made decisions without all the facts. Distorted reality. Sheltered. Avoided. Abused your power. Corrupted. Shattered life. Broken a family. Damaged the future. All for what. Instant gratification. A moment of pleasure. Supposed happiness. No long-term goals. No plan for the future. Destruction. Life-long devastation. Enabled. Crippled.

Loss. Unattainable expectation. Alone. Who will pick up the pieces. The glass shatters. Who will be there. No physical contact. Masked emotion. Bleeding tears. Toss and turn. Blinding darkness. Egg dripping down the windshield. Black and blue. Blinking lights. Deafening sound. Uncontrollable.

Time to wake up. Good morning.

UnOriginal

It's Sefira but I can't stop myself from listening to music. I get the reasoning. Music has a tremendous power. It has this absolute control over me. But it doesn't make me happy. Does that justify things?

Music makes me sad. The lyrics place me in a trance. The beat manages to push its way into my veins. The emotion and feeling in the singer's voice take over my soul. It becomes an out of body experience. Completely overwhelming.  All encompassing. Shouldn't all that be a reason not to listen.

But I can't stop. I want the loss of control. I need the emotional release. I crave feeling. Feeling something. Anything. Even if they are not original. Even if they are not mine. For one moment, I can feel something. And that's the point. That's all that matters.

Horrible Sadness....

Such terrible tragedies going on around me. People who I know well are suffering and in pain. Death and pain all around. Babies born out of wedlock. What is this world coming to? I can't take my mind of these things. So much sadness. Horrible sadness.

A girl my age dies after years of suffering from cancer. Gets sent home from the hospital to Hospice. Sent home to die. But then she dies. She was only 27 years old. Leaving behind a loving husband, family, friends. She was a kind and sweet person. Gentle. Pure.

A friend posts on Facebook yesterday that she regrets to let everyone know that her dear sister has passed away. A younger sister. Mother of a four month old. Dead. Leaves behind a husband. A family. A baby. A motherless baby. My friend has to bury her sister. Her younger sister.

A girl I went to high school with just had a baby with her Mexican boyfriend. Her boyfriend that she works at the local pizza store with. The newborn already looks Mexican. The mother is a blond haired, blue eyed Jew. Her child will have no nachala (portion in Israel). Who gives this child a bris? This girl was adopted as a small child. Her parents gave her everything. For what?

What has happened to the world. Or was it always like this. Miserable. Horrid. Where is the light at the end of the tunnel? Where is the silver lining? Tell me. Where?