proteanme

Grief is making a mess of me. And it sucks. It really does. I do better when I am busy. Either physically or intellectually. I realized that yesterday when I ended up with a butter knife in hand trying to dig the grit out of the narrow gaps in between the plastic molding in the interior of my car. And because it was sunny and I felt satisfied, I just kept going, making my way to the do-it- yourself car wash on the other side of town. Something about the whole experience felt very midwestern to me. Maybe it was the sun or playing my stereo loud with the window rolled down or wearing mirrored sun glasses

I’ve been hesitant to admit it out loud, but I’m tired of trying to keep it together. Because I am in fact suffering. And it is not at all like I thought it would be, not that I thought a lot about it. My anxiety is kind of all over the place and I just feel so confused and tired. Plus there’s periodic bouts of just being sad and angry and terribly lonely to contend with. It’s not like I miss my dad more than I missed him before he died. I’ve always missed him, but  more like white noise in the background. Easy to forget because I’ve lived with the white noise of his absence longer than I lived with him. I just miss him differently  now that he’s dead. Plus in his dying, we peeled off a protective layer that barely concealed all the craziness so now the whole world can see how fucked up things were, which is both freeing and incredibly scary.

I don’t know if it’s a free for all or a free fall or some combination.

And there’s barely any solid ground, save for a couple friends and my sister. There’s work, which is consistent and constant, but it has it own host of headaches and a fair amount of stormy waters to navigate. Still, it keeps me busy. Pays my bills. Gives me some meaning or a distraction from things seeming so meaningless. RU has been a god send. Seriously. And yet she is dealing with her own free fall. Ditto my girl in Western Mass, except she’s it’s more of a wrecking ball for her than a free fall.

I manifest in other ways what I can’t express through more traditional out pourings. I drop things a lot. Knock things over. Set things down on an unsteady surface from which they will obviously fall. I don’t make sense sometimes when I’m talking. I hear myself say things out loud and I’ll think to myself that’s not at all what I meant. But I’ll just keep talking. I watch bad TV, shows like American Idol and Biggest Loser. I eat junk food. I shop for the perfect pair of sneakers. I’ve not bought them, but I have bought various pairs of work boots off ebay, most of which I’ve donated or sold.

Grief is not gracious or convenient. And it doesn’t even make sense. My boss asked me how my weekend was and I told her that weekends seem to be hard for me because I have less to occupy my time and my dad died on a Saturday. She responded, kinda hopefully, “but it was sunny.” I just looked at my shoes and told her, “grief doesn’t care.” And it doesn’t.