The disjointed, not OK post

I so rarely open my laptop.  Poor, old Nick comes unplugged and goes dead as he rests near the couch, forsaken in favor of iPad or work computer.

In addition, I am loathe to think.  Because life seems painful - new miseries just waiting to be acknowledged.

"Does it bother you?" Pretty Hair asked as we talked over wine after work one day.  I'd disclosed that I lost the promotion not terribly long before Dad died.  That some of my dwindling moments with him were spent weeping over professional crap.

"That he knew?  No.  I believe he knows now - that it's OK and that in the future it will be OK.  I just miss him - want to talk to him to make sure he's doing well in Heaven.  That he likes it there."  Then I crumbled my drink napkin - now sodden with tears - in my trembling hand.

Pretty Hair dabbed at her eyes as well before Sibling arrived, offering hugs and distracting photos of her Jersey condo.

"We did pretty well," Pretty Hair commented.  "I'm in Bern.  Sibling in NYC.  Other friend in LA.  Katie... here."  So I laughed and indicated I don't want to move.  I'm fine where I am.

I did, however, have to move my desk.  Adding insult to injury, someone had already claimed the cubicle I wanted by placing boxes-full-of-binders on the edge of the desk.  I'd moved them with some help from my new team, then apologized when I realized he'd wanted to sit there.

He insisted I move.

Which I guess is fair.  Not a big deal.  That I pretty much hate him is a response out of proportion with the situation.

That he emailed me to ask me to move again yesterday - after I'd relocated a week ago already - made me write a response that replied 'Fuck off, you stupid son of a bitch' to his 'Have an awesome day!' signature.  (I didn't send it.  But I look forward to being obviously bitchy when I do meet him.)

I must regroup.  Bounce back.  Find some sense of happiness and well-being.

But I'm failing miserably.

I sleep until I ache - head and muscles - from lack of use.  I keep buying books I don't finish.  I don't have to travel anymore so there's no break in the monotony.  There is just existing as the weather grows cooler.  Flip a switch from air conditioning to heat.  Revise documents and schedule redundant discussions.  And try to find some modicum of energy to pretend I care.

Sibling needs a place to stay right before her move so I was cleaning up clutter yesterday.  I found a bag, began to empty it, and found myself clutching Dad's Batman pajama pants to my chest, unable to breathe past the grief.

I am not OK.

I know there's a good chance I will be again, but the rush of memories keeps knocking me off balance. Holding his hand at the hospital and whispering that I was scared.  How he'd rest his forehead on my shoulder - exhausted - as we'd help him up to use the bathroom.  Holding Mom's hand as we tried to sleep the night that we lost him.

From my favorite spot on the couch - now littered with extra pillows and fluffy blankets as I rarely move from here - I can see an enlarged photo of Venice at sunrise.  The pastel hues of dawn with the ornate street lamps perched on cobblestones looking out over the lagoon.

I like to think I was happy then - and I was - but there were moments of inexplicable sadness there too. Perhaps I should just accept that I'm a depressed and depressing person.

I answered the phone Mom handed me last time I was home.  "Hello, Aunt," I said.

"I know she's not talking to me," Aunt replied of my mom and I giggled.  "She thinks I don't know that I pissed her off.  But I do know.  I was just trying to help."

"I know," I soothed.  "And I don't think she's angry.  Just tired.  We don't want grief counseling.  Or therapy.  Or suggestions on how to do this, really."

"But she said she's ready to die, Katie," Aunt argued and I shrugged, not mentioning that I'm not sure I disagree with that stance.

"But she's not hastening the process," I replied gently.  "We're not suicidal.  We're sad.  We pray and work and are trying to figure this out.  It's just really very hard right now."