Writing is hard when you know you sound whiny and trite. It's a slow, thoughtful process for me to decide how to share how I feel, but sometimes it's the only thing I can do. So here are some things.
I keep a show or a podcast on all the time just for the noise. I fall asleep to it and when it turns off, I wake up soon after with anxious thoughts. I worry about my classes or things I haven't done at work or remember something really important. The only time I don't have noise is in the shower, and that's where I think about sad things and cry.
Mini is on 3 meds and Gus is on 2 meds and 2 supplements; his are all twice a day and 2 of Mini's are once a day. I had to make a chart.
I have tried four times to hire a personal trainer in the last six months and the universe is just not having it, which makes me think either I don't need one or I haven't found the right one.
Today my work team met at our old office to go through everything we had stored there. I'm sure there are old things that brought up but I was struck by how easily some people made decisions. Old file folders were thrown out- I would have organized them by type and probably color, put them in the supply closet, and even reorganized some of that stuff to fit. Yes, they were old and tired and had labels on both sides of the tabs. In my world, how often would I ever throw file folders out? We were halfway through the day before the question of staples came up. Can you put staples in the shred box? I always pay attention to the instructions on the box. Some have said no staples; some have said staples are fine. These boxes didn't say. It did say recyclable material only, and to me that means white paper, no stickies, no staples. We did try to ask, but got no reply in time so the team decided staples were fine. It was a decision I COULD NOT go along with. They did their piles a lot faster, but I pulled staples or ripped the corners off. Why am I like this? Can you imagine the things I keep? I have a bag of dead water filters and a bag of old toothbrushes in my car, waiting to find a place to recycle them. How can I dispose of old nail polish safely? I don't know, so I keep it. My heart hurt throwing those file folders away, even though they were old, beat up, and falling apart. I keep bits of ribbon in case I can use them to wrap a present. Maybe this is why the crows I feed don't bring me shiny treasures: they know I already have too much shit. Maybe I'm the crow.
Every time someone tells me they're pregnant, I have an involuntary breakdown. It's like being mown over by grief tornado: not much warning, varied damage. It whisks me back to knowing I was pregnant before realizing that I knew, and experiencing something like 4 days of joy and plans before a painful miscarriage ended the excitement and, little did I know, would take down my whole relationship. It makes me think about how guilty I felt- sure it was due to diabetes and not finding out for 10 years what the real problem was. It reminds me of how vulnerable and terrified I felt on the operating table about to get my tubes tied. It makes me angry all over again that the gynecologist knew I would likely miscarry and didn't tell me. It makes me think about fostering and adopting kids and realizing I am STILL not in a place to be able to do that. It makes me think about how many friends and family have partners that seem so dedicated to each other, that they can depend on each other and can share the everyday tasks and be best friends and that I'm alone. That makes me sad and angry about my Night Bus and how he should be here and I don't even know what happened and that most people who know about it think I'm an idiot.
If I tell people I'm still sad over losing my Night Bus, most tell me I need to let it go, or worse, that he wasn't perfect, which is enraging because I am not an idiot, or they say having a partner has its downfalls, which makes me wonder if they remember what the benefits are.
And I know there are benefits to my side. When I come home, nobody calls out from the couch to ask me what's for dinner. I watch exactly what I want. I control the thermostat, and I don't have to compromise. I always get to drive and sing loud and I can rearrange the furniture anytime in any inefficient way I want. I can read late and sleep in. I can stand in the gift wrap aisle at TJ Maxx for 40 minutes and sort all the gift cards if I want, which I have done, and thoroughly enjoyed it. I also don't have to be in a box of anybody's ideas about my limitations- just my own box, which is hard enough to get out of, thank you very much.
Sometimes I like that none of my ideas go together, and sometimes it looks like a pure mess. I do like that I don't fit, and I'm getting better at going with what works for me. Hopefully I will be able to hold my own lines and not smush to fit in somebody else's box. My favorite sad joke these days is in response to an astrology app that says I'll find love later in life. That's good news, but... just how much later?
Trust that I hate how much I want love. I don't think there is anything I can do to fix that, though. I am a meerkat for love, and that is just an eternally hopeful part of myself that I cannot kill or ignore. Sometimes my optimism and pessimism even each other out and I can get something done. Sometimes I find items in my closet that unintentionally match and it looks like I did it on purpose. Sometimes I feel proud of myself or that I'm a fun and interesting person. Sometimes it all works, so maybe the love and the littles and the thoughts that didn't work before will line up and I'll have all the things or most of the things that I want and I'll feel pretty satisfied. And then I'll have to complain about something else.
Today I talked with a woman who has lost a lot more in the last year than I have, and she talked about how no one's grief is worth more than anyone else's. She shared some good advice about grieving in a book she's reading. It said to not be afraid to tell friends what you need. I don't know if that has occurred to me. She also said there is nothing to do but keep going and I wanted to blurt out "I just keep passing open windows" from the John Irving book but I didn't. It's not a cry for help; I find it funny. It's just that even when it's really sad, something usually propels us forward despite how little sense it seems to make. I just keep passing open windows and eventually something works and I feel up again. I see though that I am grieving more than just my Night Bus and that I need some perspective and tools from someone trained to help. I'd like to find some peace from the noise inside so I can turn off the noise outside.
The only way out is through.
