Sunday, July 8, 2012


I've been irritable the last week or so, getting into it over tiny stupid things with E, and feeling even more like a heel because he's been recovering from surgery.  Arguing with someone who's in pain, can't eat, and was hopped up on Percocet is asshole behavior, and I'm guilty of it.  I'd been chalking it up to hormones, but I'm no longer PMSing, and that feeling is still there:  the hair trigger, the feeling of restlessness, the impatience, the inability to just settle down and do something I actually enjoy; I'm adrift and spoiling for a fight. 

I started the morning with a spell in the hot tub, and as I was lying there in the bubbles, it finally came to me:  it's the week before the sadiversary.  That's what this is about.

For some time now, this is how grief has manifested for me.  Not in tears--those come at random, poignant moments that make me misty-eyed; I just get irritable, as if there's a part of me that feels and knows that something is wrong, and it doesn't like it one bit, and dammit, everyone who has the misfortune to come in contact with me and rub me just the slightest bit wrong is going to feel it, too.  Maybe it's vestigial rage from the cosmic wrong.  I felt plenty of rage in the early days.  Not so much now, but I'm generally a content and easygoing person.  There are 2 things that consistently get me to feeling this way.  If it's not hormones, it's probably A being dead that's riled me up.  The bastard keeps doing it; he knows I don't like it, but evidently he's unwilling to resurrect himself for my benefit.

Candice has talked a lot about how, when you're no longer actively grieving, and no longer sad all the time, it's harder to remember that grief is still on your list of things that could be bringing you down.  What was once your "well, duh!" explanation for any bad mood is no longer the first thing you think of, and while that's all to the good, it does mean that it often requires a little more excavation to figure out what's eating you now.  It's July 8th.  I've got just 7 more days to say and think that A's been gone 5 years before it turns to 6.  As soon as it occurred to me this morning, I knew that was it.  So I gave myself permission to sit with it for the next week and not worry overmuch about my mood, because there's really nothing else I can do anyway.  Feel what you feel when you feel it; that's my motto.  It's somewhat easier to do when you've figured out WHY you feel what you feel.

I ran some errands this afternoon, just needing milk and to get out of the house.  As I was driving home from the grocery store, I saw a sign for an estate sale.  I will never go to another estate sale, as I've mentioned previously.  But the sign got me thinking about A's family, and how they got rid of all his stuff, and my stuff, without a thought for me.  And then I thought about his sister.  And then I thought about talking to his sister the day we found him.  And then I thought I was about to throw up. 

Even now, 6 years later, remembering that day provokes a terrible physical response that is only diminished in the avoidance of thinking about it.  When I dare otherwise, it's right there, the aching hollow feeling in my gut.

I don't know what the next week will bring, or whether there'll be a hangover following.  What I do know is that I'll get through it; and that I'm still pissed off I have to.


  1. Those b*st*rds insist on staying dead. It really p*sses me off.

    Aside from commisery, I got nothin' for you. Sorry, babe. But yeah, you'll get through it. That and a quarter will buy you 5 minutes on a DC parking meter.

  2. Don't it just? Sigh. Thanks for the commiseration. It means a lot during a lonesome time.

  3. Amen. Exactly. (And thanks for the min shout-out. ;o))

    Irritation, anger, and crankiness are always my M.O., too. I wish it were overt tears or sadness; they'd be more easily explained and understood.

    I hate this week, but you're right: it'll be over shortly, and then it's back to being no different from any other week....

    Much love to you, my friend....


    1. Thanks Candice. No is so bizarre to me how we've gotten used to this. But it's the only way you make it through.

    2. I think that's what I now find so astounding: Not that he's dead and insists on remaining so -- can't say as I blame him, really. But that I've gotten used to his being dead. That we've all gotten used to their deaths, that we've gotten used to our lives as they are, gaping holes and all.

      The very idea of "getting used to it" seemed like such an absurdity in the beginning, if not outright blasphemy. And yet, here we are ... 6 and 7 and 8 years later ... "used to it."