sitting down to write a eulogy

With all the death I have experienced in my life, I have still never writen a eulogy that has satisfied me. No set of words arranged in some particular order have ever been able to convey what I feel inside when I loose someone I love. I've written plenty about broken hearts, but those heal with time, and writing about them is just part of that process. But you never really heal from death...... at least I never have.

There are two people inside me looking out at the world and often staring intently at one another. There is the writer, and the emotional self. The writer has been guilty more than once of subjecting the emotional self to people or situations that will be difficult for her to endure for the sake of good material. In fact the writers exploitation of the emotional self is at times almost criminal. Still, the emotional self is not defenseless. In the most extreme of circumstances, the emotional self has mastered the art of denial. She simply refuses to feel the emotions that give the writer her sense of depth and ritchness. The writer is unable to perform without access to these feelings, so when the emotional self shuts down, the writer becomes weak and helpless.
But without the writer, those tender feelings have no voice. She may close up out of stubborness, but ultimately she knows that she must open up to the writer again if she ever is to heal. For as much as they battle one another at times, ultimately they find they need one another. In fact, their co-dependancy has served as a terrible example for my own relationships.

We can see it taking place as I write.
I sat down to write a eulogy for my dog Angie who was put down due to severe suffering on Friday. I meant to write it that day. I meant to write it the next day. I intended to write it now.
But when I sat down, I realized that all I have access to are memories of her, but no feelings. I know she deserves better than this. I know my father deserved better than that horrible patchwork of moments and dull sentiment that I read at his funeral. I know my friend mojo deserved better than that half-assed poem I read to a room full of half drunk college kids. Ed's suicide left me with nothing but a bad metaphore about a train ride. The writer is now asking herself "what the fuck is wrong with me?"

So I intervene. I ask that the two make ammends and learn to be good for one another. But the emotional self is wounded and has trouble trusting the writer. At last she recognizes that the exchange could be a good release for her, and says that the writer should start with the memories, and perhaps some sentiment will be attached.
The writer is understanding, being fully aware of the pain she has created. She bows in acceptance of anything the emotional self is willing to give.


to be continued. ...........