In the past week and a half, I have started (and nearly finished) five different blogs. All of them are saved in my editing list, but it's likely that none of them will ever get published. They are falsely happy blogs, funny lists and tales of craziness that has gone on, per the usual, as the days have rolled forward. I can't quite wrap them up because they sound so fucking forced it drives me insane to read them. That said, I think I need to finish SOMETHING before I can go back to my usual sarcastic self, and perhaps a Sad Blog is exactly what I need. So here you have it. The Sad Blog.
When I was a little girl growing up in Tennessee, I always loved spring. The farm where we lived was amazing this time of year-- overrun with forsythia, fruit trees, flowers and vines. One field in the back of the farm has a section that is nothing but thousands of daffodils, bright and lush and scented so strongly you can nearly taste them. They remind me of my Grandpa, and I have so many memories of going back there once the blooms had opened for Easter egg hunts, quiet time, or to pick bouquets with my Mom. We would fill Mason jars with water and flowers and set them all over the house. They were happy things.
Spring is starting to show her head in Virginia now, and our back yard is a burst of yellow from all of the forsythia. My gardenias are gearing up to bloom once it gets a bit warmer, and we have dwarf irises and Japanese magnolias and so many lovely things to focus on every day. I am grateful for them, because right now I'm feeling kind of empty, and they are probably part of the reason why I'm only feeling "kind of empty" as opposed to desolate. I shouldn't feel desolate. We've covered before that I have so many "blessings"-- a word that I despise and feel like a hypocrite for using, but which is probably the most accurate in this setting. Still, right now I feel a lot of loss.
It seems that grief, once it has set in and become an official part of you, rears its head in waves. It used to be that every minute of every day was somehow intertwined with the bitterness of missing my Dad. That it was impossible to ease that feeling that I had just been kicked in the stomach-- couldn't breathe, couldn't focus, couldn't think straight. But now, over two years later, Grief mostly reappears when I expect him least. He's settled and he's always there, but waits until I think I'm in the clear before he comes marching in. He's nasty like that.
A little over a week ago, I lost someone important in my life once again. The hard part was that this person was one of the very few people whom I actually went to when I was grieving, and knew how to put emotional salve on those wounds. This loss, in itself, is devastating enough, but it seems to have reawakened the feelings associated with losing my Dad. I'm back to choking on my sadness. Only now, my sadness is in tiers-- the absence of my Dad at the top, spilling down to the absence of others I have loved and love still. A big fountain of heartbreak.
As a result, I have had a frantic week of trying to outrun my melancholy, or at least beat it into submission. I worked endless hours at both jobs, plus put extra effort into my Mommy gig. I scrubbed the bathrooms. I hit the gym every day. I shrugged off my anti-social tendencies and went to a St. Patrick's Day party (during which I apparently made out with a girl--I have little memory of this, but I have seen the photographic proof-- my husband is so damn proud). I drank (a LOT). And yet here it is, over a week later, and despite all that effort, the sad isn't gone. It's just lingering, waiting to see what I'll do next.
And what WILL I do next? I don't know. I imagine I'll keep trekking onward, focusing on preschool carpools, doctor and dentist appointments, vacuuming, grocery shopping, laundry. And though time seems to ease all wounds, I have no faith in the theory that it heals them. Perhaps lack of faith is part of the problem.