One of the most repeated statements I've heard since Easter has been, "You grieve on your own time. Don't let anyone make you do anything that you don't want to do or deal with things you are not ready to deal with."
If only one could live in this magical dream world of screwing what others thought, let life stand-still at her home and mundanely walk around and skate by the items of remembrance. The last vestiges of a life cut too short.
These past seven months have proven to be a testament of how four people can grieve so differently. Some hide their heads like a turtle in it's unclean shell, others tell everyone and anyone all the information and more - most skewed and incorrect because they are too young to know any differently or able to assimilate the vast jagged shrapnel left behind. Others quickly dart in and out of conversation to let you know they are thinking about it all but then quickly hide for fear of a "sad" reaction they can't handle. Some regress to pooping in their pants, others regress to peeing in their pants. And I'm not just talking about children here..... Procrastination turns into fights, fights turn into standstills, standstills turn into anger. Anger over everything.
I wrote on Facebook the other day "you would be pleased to know, Easter decorations have been discarded." Unwillingly discarded.
Someone later said, "aren't you happy your house is clean?"
In a very short, succinct word: No.
Hiding behind memories and clutter has guaranteed people won't come over and if they do, maybe, just maybe, I've left this shit around to remind others that I'm not okay. I'm sad. I'm mad! Why don't you people remember him? Why the fuck are you over here in the first place? Cleaning up my fucking house doesn't bring me back my child. It only reminds me more that he's gone because the last moments I had with him are gone. Well, minus the baby swing at the foot of our bed. The dead flowers are gone. The car seat carrier has been donated. The box full of prayer cards and condolences are shoved underneath our bed. Replacing it all with a dead, haphazard Thanksgiving centerpiece.
In truth, I have many things to be thankful for including; loving, healthy, for the most part, happy children and a husband who only hates me 1/3 of the time. Pretty good percentages if you think about it compared to most.
I'm writing this statement so maybe I'll feel it: "I'm going to "try" to be happy, healthy and rejoiceful this Thanksgiving week."
I said I'd try and I'm not promising anything. Also, I'll be having a little heave-ho, help with my best friend, Xanax and his little friend, Vodka.
May you not need any of these crutches to celebrate with you and yours and if you do, makes sure you don't end up in prison after it's all said and done. Because that would be so very sad and well, you would be far removed from all your vices for quite awhile.
Anyone want the Gorillabuns household to come and spend Thanksgiving with YOU and YOURS? We'll bring the wine/booze if you can handle us since we aren't really up to tradition this year. Come to think of it, who wants us to visit during Christmas? This is REALLY the time when we are going to be a lively bunch. If anything, we'll make great fodder for your subsequent conversations with friends and foe.
"Whew! We thought we were a fucked up mess but THOSE people take the proverbial cake!"
Today is my Mother's birthday. I hope she doesn't mind me saying this but I'm going to anyway. She turns 61 today. Might I add, she looks light years younger than her age and has better taste in music than I. Sometimes I feel like my mother and I live a "Freaky Friday" kind of existence. Thinking about what my life might be like at her age, I'm blown away at the differences. A) Celia will be 26 and Moira 25 and probably still living with us. B) Can't think of a B. All I know is, I don't feel 40 so I can only imagine how she feels at 61.
Aging is such a bitch. Too bad we can't stay 25 forever. I'll even take 30.
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I have successfully/unsuccessfully blurted out in the past few days that I have a dead son at which point, I made one of the ladies bust out crying. My "frankness" or as most would say "directness," sometimes/most of the time gets in the way of how I deliver or probably shouldn't deliver this piece of news.
I really need to work on my delivery. Maybe I can find a class on "tact" at the local Community College.
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A teacher asked if I wanted to substitute teach her First grade class tomorrow. I looked around to make sure she was really talking to me because, are you really asking me? I'm not a kid person, well other people's kids I should say. I laughed and said, "Sure! If you want me to pass out gin shots to all the kids and dissect the inner workings of the dramatic love scenes on General Hospital!" Funny thing is, I think she'd be okay with my lesson plan.
Need I remind you, my kids go to a Catholic school.