good grief, bad sadness

“The trouble is, you think you have time.” from Jack Kornfield’s Buddha’s Little Instruction Book (1994)

Continue reading good grief, bad sadness

grief and me

Grief didn’t seem confusing a couple of years ago, when this began. It got very confused with depression as time went by, till I started asking myself whether I was experiencing one or the other, or both, or whether grief = depression, or?
Continue reading grief and me

monday bloody monday

Whattaday. I spent it with my neighbour, first in the ER waiting room, then in Cardiac ICU. Serious heart failure and it’s the second time I’ve taken her to hospital with it this year. Cancer meds ate her heart muscle (they’ve since been withdrawn from the profiteering mafia market). I’m gonna blog about me me meeee though, since I can keep my head jammed up my ass on my blog.

I fucking hate that hospital with a passion. My mother started dying there and I remember my clear focus everywhere except the last corridor, which sort of telescoped every time I walked down it. Why the fuck that chain of hospitals paints so much red idk. Psychologically, it apparently denotes energy, passion, anger … it makes my eyes go like this: @@

image

Wtf was I talking about?

Oh.

Today a doctor, a nurse and a specialist who looked after my mother went past me at various times. I was so fucking manic back then, but at a good level. I didn’t fuck my entire life and everyone else’s up till months later.

I am saying fuck a lot. I swear horrendously pretty much all the time, except when I’m truly angry.

The hospital antipathy wasn’t the primary issue today. The fucknutted whoredog minibollocked issue, was my neighbour. (I don’t often get my priorities right, so it’s worth noting.)

I sort of inherited my neighbour as a friend from my mother, they were great friends and my neighbour was very much there when she was dying. We were never close, the neighbour and I, but obviously we went through that together and some more stuff since. Suddenly I realised I really and sincerely, genuinely do give a shit. Tears prickled. I babbled. Well here we go again … I haven’t gone completely into orbit though. I sat and shook some, leaned on a friend virtually some and then pulled myself towards myself and got practical and sensible again. Somewhere in the middle of it all, my psychiatrist answered an email from last week, telling me not to feel bad about starting smoking again. *chainsmokes*

Now, after a fairly long day, I am home, scatterbrained and eating cold pizza.

image

Mixed episodes, srsly, fuck you. Your mother was a blowfish. Fuck injured hearts, fuck loss, fuck hospitals and fuck xmas.

PS – I’m happy now, just heard that she’s doing a ton better and the problem isn’t as hectic as it seemed at first. Blogging my bitching and whining anyway so that I can: –
a) Take you on an emotional roller coaster for nothing; or
b) Keep tracking this whole bipolar mood shi(f)t.

You pick.

(I now cannot undo fasteners or cry.)

ritual sans religion

Sometime around 4pm, sweating under a blazing sun, I did some gardening, put out the trash and then lit a fire. I have a hollow dug out of the lawn, with rocks from the beach round it. I burned the impepho I’d pulled out, it made very orange flames and very blue smoke. I’d planted it on the advice of a sangoma, who told me (by cellphone) to plant it and tell my mother anything I wanted. So I did and occasionally I’d flick cigarette ash or chuck some coffee grounds. That would have been her top two requests, followed by a cheese sandwich. We had a few weeks of intense summer rain and my poor impepho drowned. Dried, it’s burned inside sometimes, to banish negative things (angry spirits).

The Planet Grief. An incalculable number of light years from the warmth of the sun. When the rain falls, it falls in droplets of grief, and when the light shines, it is in waves and particles of grief. From whatever direction the wind blows–south, east, north or west– it blows cinders of grief before it. Grief stings your eyes and sucks the breath from your lungs. No oxygen on this planet, no nitrogen; the atmosphere is composed entirely of grief. [By the Time You Read This, Giles Blunt]

I don’t want to write about it much tbh. I’ll just tell her now, like I did when they took the body; hamba kahle, mum.

Emptying my head again

AS THE ZEN SAYING GOES, “After enlightenment, the laundry.”

Radio Psychosis has gone off the air brainwaves at last. I didn’t mind it so much earlier in the year, when it delivered music I like. Mostly that means sad songs by pretty boys. The past few weeks though, it just gave me earworms. The kind you can literally hear *insert incredibly peeved emoticon*. This, for example, is a loved and lovely song, but not day and night plus idk how many remixes. Why, brain, why?

image

Btw you can sing this post’s title in the style of Dietrich, emptyink my head again, what am I to do …
So I just finished reading The Wild Truth, by Carine McCandless. You know, Chris’ sister. I watched Oprah interviewing Sean Penn about Into the Wild, then I saw the film, then I heard the soundtrack (Eddie Vedder) and then I read the book (Jon Krakauer). I do not have a t-shirt. Anyway. I think the Chris McCandless story and all its accoutrements will be filed as something like ‘On the Road for Generation X’ one day. Obviously I drank the koolaid here. In the initial book and film, you get the idea that the father had two families at once. In Carine’s book you find out that he sorta had two wives and eight kids all at once. And he was violent too. That and their mother’s refusal to break free, is why Chris disappeared.

I started the book feeling intensely sad that I couldn’t share it with my mother (dead mothers don’t read) and ended it damn glad. Carine makes it very clear that her mother’s failure constituted abuse – my mother would have applied that to herself. And I suddenly wished that instead of spending years denying to my mother that she had let me down, I ought to have simply told her that I forgave her and that she had more than made it right, in the end. It was a good read, I recommend it. Not very triggery either.

We live, we learn.

I have a free, gratis and for nothing appointment with my psychiatrist this week. I am very touched and grateful. Tbh I probably spend more money at the vet *glares at dogs*. I’ll also be increasing the Lamotrigine dose this week (autocorrect wants to call it lamp trigger).

Idk if I’m still depressed or not. I guess I could do a questionnaire or something. At the very least, I am less depressed anyway.

Hanging on in quiet desperation is the English way … (Pink Floyd)

Chop water, carry wood … (eat, shoot, leave)

So my default state when I don’t know wtf anything means or is, is to put one foot in front of the other and plod. I can be as stoic and stupid as Sisyphus (and as sibilant, apparently). Keep on truckin’, even when you have no faith in anything.

Well fuckit.

I am the alpha and omega of narrators (I am omniscient) and I know the beginning and the end. The beginning is the word and the end is silence.
Kate Atkinson

LOL.