Scattered
Thursday was pretty much a wash. Not much crying, at least prior to the point in the afternoon when I started writing this; that changed while it was in progress. An old e-mail from A thumped me in the chest, and then Faith Hill’s “You’re Still Here” came up on shuffle play and kicked my ass. Wednesday night I had a meltdown, too. They say it’s soul-cleansing, crying, and at this point, my soul is clean enough to eat off of. Maybe even clean enough to do surgery on. But Thursday was day of total distraction. I couldn’t stay focused at work all day for more than 5 minutes at a time. I couldn’t focus on my work; I was even distracted from my distractions. My mind just kept wandering to nowhere in particular, and it didn’t seem much inclined to ask directions. This post is only more evidence of that.
A few weeks ago I ordered mats for a framed picture of A. I ordered 3 different colors, and they came damaged and I also managed to order the wrong size, so I sent them back, re-ordered the color I liked best in the correct size, and it arrived Thursday, also damaged. Perhaps the third time will be the charm. How hard is it to put it in a fucking box so it doesn’t get wrecked? I have paid better than 50% of the cost of the mats in shipping/ handling/insurance, twice now. You’d think that would count for something. I specifically asked for a box this time; I left the “fucking” part out. I’m ornery, not stupid. It bugs me that that picture isn’t “done,” as if having it done would make any bit of difference in the world to anyone but me and my quiet anxiety on the point. It’s currently sporting a crappy mat I tried to cut myself, and I’ll probably replace that with this damaged one in for the time being. It’s not as bad as the first round was. I don’t know why this is important to me, but it is; a dead man should have a nice mat around his tribute picture, dammit. (I can’t always be the sane one around here.) I always thought he looked rugged and sexy in it, and I still do, but since he passed, the endless sky ahead of him as he looks back over his shoulder at me seems prescient. Signs, signs, everywhere signs.
At the end of June I bought a new couch for my office at home, the old one being a 20-year-old hand-me-down from my folks and funky beyond my olfactory tolerance. As a woman with two furry children, I can’t even tell you what I was thinking, buying a couch with white cushions, but I picked up a couple cans of Scotchguard and sprayed it soon after assembly to prevent the worst. However, there seems to be something in it that is beyond enticing to P. She licks the couch and the pillows constantly, and I’m really not sure how Scotchguard interacts with her heart meds. It can’t be good for her, and I stop her whenever I catch her, but there’s a part of me that considers the fact that she’s almost 10, has congestive heart failure already, and I wonder if I should even bother. It’s like telling the 85-year-old with terminal emphysema that he can’t have a cigarette. She’s got a textile fetish anyway, chewing on underwear and licking bedding whenever she can. She’s a weird little dog. However…if that little fluffball dies on me, too, I don’t know what I’ll do. A called her “Shorty.” She was his pal. The fact that he was free with the cashew dispensation and skritches contributed to that in no small part, I’m sure, but he had a way with critters that was undeniable. M was a much harder sell, and A planned to charm him into submission when he visited this year. I told him he shouldn’t feel bad; M’s a little freak. But he always felt bad that M didn’t adore him. And I felt bad that he felt bad about it. And that he didn’t have the chance to win the love of a little short-bus-riding terrier.
I finally stopped lurking and started posting at my grief group. I hate to see anyone’s cry for help, company, or just a sympathetic reader, go unanswered when I understand their pain. The loneliness for the person lost is what tears you apart inside. How can one not reach out? So I do, because shouting alone in the wilderness helps not at all, seems to me. You need a human hand to reach out, even virtually, and even in my pain, I can muster up some empathy and do that. I’ve been to two counseling appointments now, and we’re still doing history, and will for at least part of next week’s session, too. 50 minutes isn’t really very long to accomplish anything, even taking of a history. By next week, I’ll have blown $270 out of pocket to go through a history questionnaire, and not gotten any guidance at all, meanwhile I’m making DIY improvements on my own. I could’ve put it all in a memo prior to the first meeting and saved myself time and money. Perhaps counseling’s not the best way to go for me, since I think I’m doing as well as I possibly can be under the circumstances. Do you know how many journals, beautiful embossed leather ones, I could buy with $270??? Hell, that’s a guitar. Maybe I’d be better off pouring my money into a nice, therapeutic Martin HD-28. At this rate, I’ll have paid for it in 28 sessions; I’ll get to keep it, and I know it’ll bring me a lot more joy than sitting on a counselor’s couch ever will.
J told me that the journey of grief is about the loneliest path a person can walk, other than the one towards their own death, and I’m inclined to agree. What I wasn’t expecting, though, was that all the places they tell you to turn for help, a support group, a counselor, seem to be less help than that of your own friends, family, and heart, broken though it is, and as confused, ill-equipped, and unsure of what to say or do as we all are. Not one person in my family asked me how I was doing last weekend, even though I had let them know that I hadn’t been doing well since A died. The fact that I was grieving wasn’t even mentioned unless I said something about it, and then it was “Oh…right…sorry to hear about that.” My grieving is an afterthought for them; my cousin’s meltdown regarding her impending divorce was front and center Saturday night. I was annoyed. And for all that, I STILL felt better after being with them than I have after a counseling appointment. I’ll give it a couple-three more sessions, and if I still don’t see the point, I will find other uses for that cash.
I’ve got 3 songs picked out for open mic tonight, and I think I’m going to give it a try, barring a bad day and/or meltdown. I haven’t played out since June 24th, and that wasn’t a great show, as I was tired and allergy-ridden. I’ll let you know how it goes.