Death does not become me…

I hate grief.

I know, it’s a natural process. Yeah. Okay. Fine. Doesn’t make it any more fun for the people struggling through it. And right now I feel like I’m being knocked over with it. Can’t open my eyes in the morning without confronting some memory or moment that is hell bent on making me relive all grief from the last 33 years.

And that, my friends, is a lot of fucking grief.

Loss happens to everyone. You lose a pet, a grandparent, a parent, a friend… death is inevitable. As my dad likes to say, “None of us get out of here alive.”

Yet we continue to go on, day to day, pretending that it doesn’t exist. We don’t dwell on it, because that makes it too real. People don’t like to remember that they are mortal. They see Death looming in a corner and avert their eyes, thinking that will somehow save them from the eventual scythe.

But there are times when you can’t look away. When it comes up and smacks you across the face. Leaves your ears ringing and your heart breaking.

And I hate it.

I’ve hated it ever since I lost my grandpa. He had cancer. I remember the night he died. We got a phone call that he was in hospital and not going to make it through the night. I pulled on my jeans under my nightgown and we all tumbled into the car, rushing to Auburn to deliver my mother to her father’s side in time to witness his passing. I remember being angry that they wouldn’t let me go in to see him.  I was only nine, I wasn’t supposed to see death yet.

Seeing him in his coffin made it no more real. It was the most dressed up I’d ever seen him. He was a gardener and a fisherman. Suits were not his preferred wardrobe. They should have buried him in his overalls.

Then I started losing friends. One to cancer in the 7th grade. Another to anorexia in the 9th grade. One to a car accident, another to suicide, yet another to cancer… all in the space of four years. Too many funerals. And those were just the children.

More family members. My grandmother to cancer. Paternal grandmother to neglect (but the doctors called it pneumonia). Paternal grandfather to whatever takes rat bastards in their seventies… An uncle to cancer, another to suicide, and yet another to a heart attack.

Then there was my mother-in-law a few years ago. Now my father-in-law last month. And a family friend this month.

And here we go again. Reliving all the messy, ignored grief that I’ve been bottling all these years. So I’m crying, and raging, and wanting to scream and hit and harm. Because I don’t know what else to do. I am overwhelmed and helpless in the face of this monstrosity. I am powerless. And I fucking hate it.

Yes, it’s healthier to let it happen. To allow these feelings to pour out when they’re happening. Sure, I know that now. But I didn’t know it then. And I still have all of that muck and sediment built up, waiting for a crack in my armor to come crashing out. Making me into a mess. Making me cry. Making me want to beat my fists bloody against a brick wall so I can feel on the outside what I can’t stop feeling on the inside.

Everybody dies. And we don’t get to choose the when and how. There is no control, no choreography, no script. I suppose there is some comfort in that.

It’s the aftermath I don’t want to deal with.

So, as a favor, I would appreciate it if the people I love and care about (and you know who you are) would please give me some respite from grief. A few months. That’s all I’m asking for. Just don’t die or get terribly injured for a little while. Give me a chance to get centered again. Give me a chance to vomit up all the misery and loss I’ve been holding in forever. Give me a chance to stabilize. No more death. Just for a little while.

Please.

And don’t make me beg.

Because I hate begging almost as much as I hate grieving.

Ah, January…

Okay, so it’s been a while.

More than a while.

Oregon is still nice. The people are still friendly. I am still crazy. Not much changes around here I guess.

A trip to Wales is in the works. Wayne and Deb are getting married in July, so we’re off to see the wedding and visit family. I’m really looking forward to the trip. Deb and I are planning to stay a night in London as a sort-of “hen night.” I’m all over that. I haven’t spent any real time in London since… oh heck…. sometime in the late ’90s. Of course, that means the men will have charge of the children. We’re planning on catching up to them in Swansea the next day. Mister L and Wayne will have our two kids and Wayne & Deb’s daughter. Three against two. Should be fun for them. I haven’t spent that many hours away from my kids since they were born. Odd.

Other than that… still working on the book. Upped my meds and am slightly more sane than not, most of the time. Thankfully, upping the meds did nothing to remove the psycho killer from my story. I was wondering if my fiction would become more reality-based if I were less depressed. Fortunately I am still whacked when it comes to my imagination.

Some things don’t change.

Small town.

I like this place. The leaves are turning lovely shades of red and orange. It’s finally cold enough to wear long sleeves and jeans again. My favorite kind of weather. It’s raining more often than not, but when it stops everything glistens in the sunshine. We saw a double rainbow the other day during one of the brief breaks in the rainstorm. Good stuff if you can catch it.

I like the house we’re in, too. Finally enough space for ourselves and our kids… and all the stuff that comes with carting that many people around. Though I still haven’t unpacked more than just a few of our books. I need more bookcases.

I’ve been baking a lot lately. Loaves of French bread. Banana bread. Pumpkin bread. No cookies yet, but I’m sure they’re somewhere on the horizon. Cup of very strong coffee in the morning and a slice of bread, slightly toasted. Yep, a good way to start the day.

I need that right now. The blackness of absolute dejection and that horrifying void that appears in front of me lately when I try to think too far ahead need to be kept at bay with coffee and baked goods. And lots of good music. I’ve been listening to music while I do the endless dishes in my apron, feeling very much like a twisted reincarnation of June Cleaver. I have yet to wear pearls while doing housework, though. I suppose that’s something.

So the leaves are pretty. We have plenty of bread. The kids are healthy and reasonably content. We go to the local library for storytime every week. Play in the back yard when it’s not raining too hard. Do laundry every day. Drag the trash and recycling to the curb once a week. All sorts of fun stuff.

Oh yeah, and I’m working on a novel. Slowly. It is getting thrashed out. Whether I like it or not. The words have an easier time once they’re on the page and out of my head.

But right now, the kids want to go outside and play. It’s stopped raining. The sun is shining. I could rake leaves while the kids run around. Sounds good to me.

Drama queen?

Yeah, yeah. I am. I admit it.

In my defense, though, we only found a place to live in Oregon last Friday – and we’re moving this Friday. Stress? Yes.

Now I’m breathing again. Things are calmer. I’ll try not to descend into madness any more than usual.

Really.

Shoes dropping everywhere.

Well, that’s me done for now.

I hope y’all are having lovely, peaceful lives out there.

No, I’m not disappearing. Just deciding to keep an even lower profile for now because it seems I dared to allow an inkling of optimism intrude into my writing, not to mention my life, for a brief moment.

I have since seen the error of my ways. Don’t worry. Won’t let it happen again.

Back to your previously scheduled gloom and doom.

Abandon ship.

That old sinking feeling is back. The one where I wake up and stare at the window blinds, unable to get back to sleep. Never good.

It’s the feeling of disconnect. The inability to breathe. The horrible wrenching sensation that twists my insides into knots. The knowledge that this is as good as it’s going to get. I cannot change the world. I can’t even change my own mindset.

Depression is never really a good thing. It is exactly that. Depressing. Not functioning, but getting by. The signs are all there. I just can’t read them.

Who wants to hire a mother? Not many people. No matter the degree, the hours spent working from home, the writing, the publishing, the management experience. I have children, therefore my mind must be made of goo. Frustrating. Tiring. Trying.

Dammit. I don’t have time for this wallowing. I have to find more work. I have to contribute somehow. Misery is not going to help.

I have to keep trying. Nothing for it but to keep moving forward. I just wish that it weren’t so much like fighting quicksand.

Black holes.

Nope. That’s it. I’m stuck for inspiration. It’s been one of those months where things fall apart on a much larger scale than initially anticipated. And there I was, actually thinking things were looking up.

Pfffth.

So, off to find more gainful employment. Ah… the hard part. Or, in this case, the harder part. The hard part is obstinately continuing to exist in a world that seems bent on removing all evidence of joy and beauty.

And I’m an optimist.

Really.

Learning Curve

Things I’ve learned this week:

It’s rude to not return four phone messages during deadline week. Particularly when the person leaving the messages is writing about your business and has to have it in by the end of the week.

Making up quotes is never a good idea. (Actually, I knew this already, but it helps to remind me while I’m still waiting for the lovely “featured advertiser” to call me back.)

Two-year-olds don’t share. At all.

Laughter is a good thing. The people who decided to put The Daily Show and Colbert Report online were geniuses and I applaud their cleverness.

Too much television will not cause children’s brains to melt out their ears, but it will cause them to be really cranky for the remainder of the day. (Unless they’ve been watching Wallace & Gromit. For some reason W & G escapes the Television Crankiness Curse. Must be the cheese.)

Frog-shaped sugar cookies are excellent (and tasty) procrastination tools. (Though I don’t think I’ll dwell on the weirdness of vegan sugar cookies shaped like little frogs…)

It should never take four hours to fold all the clean laundry. Letting it go until there’s a pile of clean clothes the size of Everest in your bedroom is just not good. (With four people’s clean clothes all done at once this is less of an exaggeration than you might think.)

It is not selfish to put your own mental health and well-being ahead of the feelings of others, even if they are relatives and harassing you about your attitude. But it sure is difficult. Especially when they gang up on you.

And that’s it so far. But it’s only Tuesday. I’m almost afraid to see how the rest of the week goes.

Anyone for a field trip?

That’s the kind of zoom lens I want.

Though it may not fit in my camera bag.

Must start therapy fund. Now.

Some of the parenting editors in the United States are all atwitter about this Alpha Mom ”trend.” It’s an interesting concept. Very East Coast. 

It’s difficult not to notice, however, that this particular Alpha Mom has a team of nannies and babysitters at her beck and call. And that it might behoove her to consider scheduling a little more personal time for herself and her spouse. With her “village” as back-up, surely she can spare the time for a date with the other man in her life.

Interesting.

I’d wager that all mothers in the final days of pregnancy can see infinity looming before them. And when the child is born, it’s a completely different world. This woman’s reaction to motherhood is not completely alien. It’s her determination to turn motherhood into a business opportunity: touting an ideal that bears little meaning for the moms out there without a team of experts and caregivers to help bolster their rate of personal productivity.

That kid is going to throw her for a loop someday. Best start the therapy fund now. For the both of them. For her, when she finally realizes that control is an illusion. For him, well, for obvious reasons.

Yikes. As if mothering isn’t difficult enough without expecting perfection. And someone else’s idea of perfection, at that.