Again, it's been a long time since I blogged. Just to give you an update of what's been happening here in 'Thaca...there's about 4 inches of snow on the ground left over from last week. This is not to say that it hasn't snowed since. In fact, it seems to snow almost daily - a light flurry that scatters throughout the day. Our complex is pretty empty as all of the students have left for the holidays. The Pyramid Mall, a locale where normally the amount of people inside could easily be counted by a 3-year-old, has been packed to capacity for the last 10 days as people frantically shop. TJ Maxx looks like it's been ransacked - though I still have been there twice this week and twice last week. The Commons has beautiful ice statues outside of some of the popular stores and eateries. Parking down there has been difficult and the streets are part slush part pure ice. I keep having visions of blowing out my knee.
So what's been going on at 10 Fairview Square? Well my cigarette consumption is up 75 percent since November 1.
I finished the last book I read, which I mentioned in my last blog entry and have started a mystery called Blood of Angels. The writer is a hack, but he's got a good flair for drama.
Moo fell down the stairs last week due to a progressive neurological condition that has caused his back legs to weaken. The vet's estimate totals around $6,000. Since we simply can not afford that, we've put him on a low dose of steroids, which makes him pee a lot. He also looses control of his bowel functions - and rather unfortunately poops at the most random times and places. I will not say more about this subject.
I've trucked through the holiday milieu despite my sudden rash of tears and stony demeanor. In fact, I've even wrapped all of my gifts. I never thought I would hate Christmas so much, but the time has come.
I've worked diligently even through paralyzing exhaustion. I can honestly say, I haven't put myself over the edge. Things have slowed down.
I still continue to tend to our home, plants, fishies - and just about everything else that needs my attention. Hell, I even went for a manicure and pedicure last week. (Thanks Shan - it was great. The place is awesome and Dan and I are going there for all of our beautifying needs.)
I made it through the last weekend's wedding, which I will say was difficult and I had to fight back tears most of the night. You see the last time my family was together was at Shannon's wedding. We all had a wonderful time.
Last weekend I wore makeup two days in row--even dressed in my fancy clothes. It was full-on Annie. Dan was so happy to see me that way again.
As I prepare to once again pack up the car and head back to W.C. tomorrow night, I'm gripped by terrible anxiety. Does anyone know what it's like to cry for the entire duration of a 4 hour road trip? The radio doesn't bring comfort as all that's playing are Christmas tune. Anything Nat King Cole, Andy Williams and Bing Crosby always get me. Sometimes I cry until I feel as if I will vomit; then I rush to a bathroom to cry some more.
Once I get to W.C. nothing around me looks the same, and it certainly doesn't feel good to be there. In fact, I hate W.C. like I hate Christmas.
What I need now is a Christmas miracle, a divine intervention, my mom to come back. I need a makeover, plastic surgery and shock therapy. I need me back.
Thursday, December 22, 2005
Wednesday, December 14, 2005
The Aftermath
For a while I was super busy with work – thoroughly enjoyable work. In fact, I was at the top of my game. I suppose it was a much needed reprieve from my considerable grief and depression. Things have since slowed down, and I’m feeling distant and restless. Valium helps a bit. TV helps a bit. Reading, which I’ve once again had the concentration to tackle, has helped a bit. Cleaning the house has helped a bit. Work has helped a bit. Dan has helped a bit. The Boys have helped a bit. My dear friends have helped a bit. But nothing really makes me feel how I felt seven weeks ago.
Just a short while ago I found solace in talking to old family friends and members for whom I rarely spoke to before my mom’s death. It suddenly occurred to me that I wasn’t talking but interviewing them. I decided back in 1998 that I would never be a journalist, but suddenly I couldn’t stop asking questions. Everyone has an opinion, an accusation, a suspicion, a personal feeling of guilt. I can say there is a lot of blame to go around, but who pulled the trigger?
No one knew her like me and dad. I could let my suspicion carry me off to forbidden territory, but let’s call a spade a spade. My mother was never mentally well. Beautiful – yes. Generous – yes. Stylish – yes. Personable – yes. Funny – yes. Nurturing – yes. Great in the kitchen – yes. Great with decorating – yes. Creative – yes. But she had a secret side. This side was mean, unreasonable, unjust and sometimes deliberately cruel. This side had self-hate. This side was insecure. This side didn’t want to live anymore.
I’m reading a book called, “the curious incident of the dog in the nigh-time” by mark haddon. Yes, all lowercase. (Thank you K – for the freebie). There is a line:
Entia non sunt multiplicanda praeter necessitatem.
It’s Latin for:
No more things should be presumed to exist than absolutely necessary.
I suppose all of my interviewing has allowed people to let out all of their assumptions – their allegations. While this may have helped them, in the end all I’ve felt was played. Everything they say rings in my ears, and I wish for a moment I was without ears. Of course, my ears aren’t ringing, my feeble mind is. But I’ve forced it all.
Dealing with the aftermath of a relative’s suicide leaves a rather fragmented self. I know the parts of me, but they’re not fitting together nicely. I feel a tremendous loss, and I am lost. My day starts and ends with little gratification. I suppose all is not hopeless as I still keep going at it. I still wake up at a decent hour, wash, dress, eat, work. I still remember to set the coffee pot at night. I still feed my dogs. I still wash the dishes and sweep the floor. I do the laundry and water the plants. My fishies are fed each night. I make the bed. I clean up my desk when the work day is done and turn off my computer. I kiss the picture of my mom and dad with all 5 pugs that I have on my nightstand and tell her goodnight. I shop for groceries. I remember to record my favorite television shows. I cook supper. I call the kids each day when they get home from school. I snuggle with Dan on the couch. But it’s as if I do each of these things with a bleeding, festering sore dead center on my chest that just won’t heal. I can apply creams and ointments and sterile wraps, but the sore is raw and bone deep. It just won’t scab.
So I stitch it up with grief counseling and the suicide survivors group I go to every month whose members find me fascinating. I suppose under normal circumstances I would find this to be a compliment.
At the start of this blog I documented all of the dramatic changes in my life. Moving four hours from home seems like a relatively minor change a few months later. I still agree it was one of the best decisions I’ve made to date. I suppose what this tragedy has made me realize is that I can not continue to duck the blows. This blow hit me square on, and my feet are too weak to stand up.
Just a short while ago I found solace in talking to old family friends and members for whom I rarely spoke to before my mom’s death. It suddenly occurred to me that I wasn’t talking but interviewing them. I decided back in 1998 that I would never be a journalist, but suddenly I couldn’t stop asking questions. Everyone has an opinion, an accusation, a suspicion, a personal feeling of guilt. I can say there is a lot of blame to go around, but who pulled the trigger?
No one knew her like me and dad. I could let my suspicion carry me off to forbidden territory, but let’s call a spade a spade. My mother was never mentally well. Beautiful – yes. Generous – yes. Stylish – yes. Personable – yes. Funny – yes. Nurturing – yes. Great in the kitchen – yes. Great with decorating – yes. Creative – yes. But she had a secret side. This side was mean, unreasonable, unjust and sometimes deliberately cruel. This side had self-hate. This side was insecure. This side didn’t want to live anymore.
I’m reading a book called, “the curious incident of the dog in the nigh-time” by mark haddon. Yes, all lowercase. (Thank you K – for the freebie). There is a line:
Entia non sunt multiplicanda praeter necessitatem.
It’s Latin for:
No more things should be presumed to exist than absolutely necessary.
I suppose all of my interviewing has allowed people to let out all of their assumptions – their allegations. While this may have helped them, in the end all I’ve felt was played. Everything they say rings in my ears, and I wish for a moment I was without ears. Of course, my ears aren’t ringing, my feeble mind is. But I’ve forced it all.
Dealing with the aftermath of a relative’s suicide leaves a rather fragmented self. I know the parts of me, but they’re not fitting together nicely. I feel a tremendous loss, and I am lost. My day starts and ends with little gratification. I suppose all is not hopeless as I still keep going at it. I still wake up at a decent hour, wash, dress, eat, work. I still remember to set the coffee pot at night. I still feed my dogs. I still wash the dishes and sweep the floor. I do the laundry and water the plants. My fishies are fed each night. I make the bed. I clean up my desk when the work day is done and turn off my computer. I kiss the picture of my mom and dad with all 5 pugs that I have on my nightstand and tell her goodnight. I shop for groceries. I remember to record my favorite television shows. I cook supper. I call the kids each day when they get home from school. I snuggle with Dan on the couch. But it’s as if I do each of these things with a bleeding, festering sore dead center on my chest that just won’t heal. I can apply creams and ointments and sterile wraps, but the sore is raw and bone deep. It just won’t scab.
So I stitch it up with grief counseling and the suicide survivors group I go to every month whose members find me fascinating. I suppose under normal circumstances I would find this to be a compliment.
At the start of this blog I documented all of the dramatic changes in my life. Moving four hours from home seems like a relatively minor change a few months later. I still agree it was one of the best decisions I’ve made to date. I suppose what this tragedy has made me realize is that I can not continue to duck the blows. This blow hit me square on, and my feet are too weak to stand up.
Wednesday, December 07, 2005
Sunday, December 04, 2005
The Last Time
Shannon's wedding October 2005. This was the last time we were all together. As usual, I'm absent from the picture. What a great time we all had. We danced up a storm.
Saturday, December 03, 2005
Thursday, December 01, 2005
So This is Christmas
I can't believe Christmas is in a few weeks. I don't even know how I'm going to shop for people this year. And then there is another wedding on Sunday, Dec. 18. Dan is in Manhattan for the night and I'm hoping I'll be able to get to sleep. I'm all pent up tonight. Way too much energy.
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