I think I read someplace that grief comes in waves, but this is a little nuts. One minute I'm at the Martins buying bagels and peanut butter, and the next minute I'm face down in a puddle of tears clutching Stewey's blanket like I'm a deranged three year old.
So much for handling things with dignity and grace.
I supose that a qualified mental health professional would tell me that what I'm doing is actually normal, and is probably a release of grief from every loss. I was twenty-one when Mom died and had Dad and Chrissy to look after, and when Dad died some seventeen years later I guess I was still in the "be strong and lead your family" mode.
Now it's just me, and I don't need to suck it up and act like I've got it semi together, so I suppose all of it has decided to just gush out all over my freshly swept floors. For the first time since 1987 I guess I am feeling like it's OK to be sad and weak and raw and a holy crock pot of a royal mess.
What a strange sensation....
The good news is that the wave seems to have passed today, and so far I've managed to get through a damn good cup of coffee, the paper, and the Jumble without any meltdowns. The Sudoko might be another story, though, so I'm not going to put the hanky away just yet.
I have a few small errands to run (more beads for Vaceila!), and then it's home to pay bills, do a little laundry, and get some serious stitching done. I am feeling the need to insert a little Christmas stitching into my "All Vaceila all the time" rotation, so a trip upstairs to the studio might be in order!
Thanks for letting me ponder and ramble, dear friends. I've always loathed the concept of sharing one's most inner secrets (despite my propensity for doing exactly that on this here blog), but it sure feels nice to know that a tender heart is in such wonderful hands!