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Some years your heart is mistaken for a dirty washcloth and goes through the wringer. {Oh this post is da bien. keep going. keep going. One of these days I'm going to write a secret blog that has cuss words galore, and it will be secret except for those who will understand and appreciate profanity's highly debatable place in literature. I will strain my coarse venom out of this blog, however. This blog is a lady.}
I can't say who does the wringing, but I know who cleans up afterwards. A soul crushed into jagged realities--what a bloody mess. Like a lemon cut and mashed into a juicer. How do you heal that?
I've been holding off writing for at least 11 months because I've felt I've had absolutely nothing to say. Now I see that there is much to be said, but I'm not sure how to say it, and don't trust myself to handle things adequately. Also, I feel like it would just plain be too sad.
But regardless of whether or not people read it, I must write.
Out of courtesy for my fragile mental state:
1. I am not going to start linking my blogs to facebook. At least not for a while. (What would become of my reputation as a relatively sane individual?)
2. I am not going to worry about making sense. That would take far too much mental contortion.
3. I am going to write in sketches.
4. I am not going to expect very good writing.
If you still want to read this after all those conditions, Lord love you. And grant you grace and mercy!
A typical morning in grief:
I wake up and cringe. Remember Regina Specktor's lyric, I am awake and feel the ache. Wish I knew more about her life. Press snooze ten times. Scrunch my comforter over my bedhead and groan like a toddler. Look at pictures of my mother on my wall. Miss her. Play her voice like a phonograph in my mind. Wonder, fear prickling, how much longer I'll remember. Look again. Stare. Hit the snooze.
Remember that Christmas is coming and I don't know where her coffeecake recipe is. We have to have the stupid coffeecake. It's Jesus' birthday cake. Stare. I'll make it with too many chocolate chips, I know I will. It will be mushy and all wrong. Stare. Blink. Stare.
I recall how annoying it was when she'd wake me up, because she'd be preternaturally chipper, her voice jumping an octave in sing-song. I would motion for her to come next to my bed, and I'd bury my face in her stomach, and she'd hug me. I would feel about five and be happy.
I close my eyes and feel dead weight forming beneath my eyelids. That's right, I sobbed right before bed. Crap. Am I getting eye bags? Can grief do that? That's so unfair. Should I get another brand of concealer? If I just managed to sleep, it'd probably take care of itself. God. God. Jesus Jesus Jesus. Be with me. Near. Really near.
I stare at the white of my comforter, then at the creams and yellows in my room with the morning streaming in. An aspen room. It's so pretty. I should appreciate the aesthetics. I wonder how old I'll be when I die. Jesus Jesus Jesus. Jesus. Finally, finally finally I scrape the cover off and stumble up, dizzy.
Music. On. Good. Getting dressed. Decisions. Oh dear. That requires thinking. My feet are cold. I always get grumpy with cold feet. Socks, socks, socks---No, you FOOL!! MAKE YOUR BED! It's a matter of national security!! Make it NOW!! NOW!!! MAKE IT! Billions of LIVES depend on it, the fate of the Middle East--JUST MAKE YOUR--ok. Good. Done. HA! I made my bed! With cushions! I'm a success at life! Yes. Thank you Jesus. Now what in the world was I doing? Um...teeth. Brush your teeth. Oh bother, my feet are cold. Socks! Right. Socks. What time is it? OH CRAP! Brush your socks! BRUSH them! No...
It is a miracle I leave the house acceptably dressed. If I have earrings on, it's a special miracle.
I have, however, taken the precautionary step of donning a onesy to bed. That way if I completely lose it, I will show up to work halfway decent. Or at least warm.
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