Keeping It Real

I haven't much felt like posting in the past weeks and when I finally did--because I take your work procrastination seriously, reader--it felt rote, forced, not at all my typical writing experience.

As the wonderful Fussy said about not wanting to write about her declining mother, who no longer recognizes her: "A post that actually won't be a lot of fun to write. So fuck that!" Amen, sister. Exactly why I'd prefer to write about anything--my new Ikea Poang chair, Gus falling off the refrigerator, Kate Hudson's New Boyfriend, Volume 437--anything other than my complete dread of my first birthday without my mom.

I knew the actual day of my birthday was going to be weird but what I sort of forgot about was that the weeks leading up to it would also highlight her not-there-ness. Normally I would have been chatting with my mom about birthday plans. She would want to know what I would be doing, with whom, and what should she buy me?

As the days marched on and the calls that I knew weren't coming didn't come, I became more out of sorts. I procrastinated making any birthday plans until The Mama gave me the kick in the ass I needed to plan something, which I'm so glad she did, as it gave me something to focus on.

Even still, I cried everyday, at least once, often more. I started drinking more days than not. I convinced my doctor to give me a prescription for muscle relaxers (there was context to this request that made medical sense but it was his preference that I achieve relaxation via Tai Chi. To quote Fussy again: fuck that!) and as I drove home became disturbingly excited to go home, crack open a bottle of wine and take one, to embrace some moments of oblivion.

I knew how Elvis-y this was, that this behavior I would not have recognized in myself a few years ago but I tried to accept that circumstances had changed and wanting to check the fuck out, just for a little while, was forgivable.

One of the things I learned in the past few years is that grief can be relentless, crushing in its tediousness. Yet unlike many tedious tasks, say, emptying the dishwasher, it is not over quickly. Like an unwanted houseguest it lingers, never taking the hint to please leave now. I rolled with it, because what other choice is there? I can't be drunk all the time.

So, sad commercial? Wah! Out of mayo? Wah! Spazzy cat knocking water bowl over for the bazillionth time? Wah! Blogger not responding? Bwah! You get the point. It's over a week post-birthday and I'm still feeling pretty craptastic. Also very aware that there's a slew of firsts right around the corner that will surely be a blast, but you know what they say. Wait, what do they say again? 'This too shall pass?' Meh. How about 'take two and call me in the morning?'