7-10-08 Things are, if anything, worse than yesterday

Things are, if anything, worse than yesterday. It was one of those days when I just wanted to crawl into a hole and flash my fangs at anyone that came near… but life goes on, so I couldn’t.

They say that one of the stages of grief is anger… although I frankly can’t see myself as being self-aware or considerate enough to be grieving over my grandmother’s death. But that’s the roller coaster than I’ve been on today: waves of alternating self-loathing and hissing rage, all of it frustrated and without an outlet.

Everything seems magnified to mountainous proportions. Friends inflict these little indignities and cruelties on one another; they’re so small that I hesitate to tell you about them. They’re laughable. Half the time their ways of affirming a friendship: you can do these things because you’re friends and will remain so, no matter what. 

And it’s not you, Shanoah. You’ve been great. It’s other people… and I don’t want to mention their names because they’ll probably be reading this blog. God, every word I type makes me feel like I’m stepping further into quicksand. Phrases like “stepping through a minefield” come to mind. One misstep or wrong word and things will blow up, and the air will suddenly be filled with razor-sharp shrapnel, cutting everything it hits to ribbons.

How do I explain these things? My mind’s full of funhouse mirrors. The most innocent remark is blown up and made grotesque, and all these little details and implications that weren’t even there two days ago are suddenly huge and corpulent and fill my vision. A tossed-away remark on the news today set me off into a muttering, racist rant, and I can only thank God there wasn’t anyone around to see it.

Of course, I can’t let anyone know. If anyone should be feeling like this, it’s my father. It was his mother that died, after all. He’s the one that’s allowed to break down, not me. I’ve got to stay strong for him and help him over the rough spots that will inevitably throw themselves in his path. The problem is that I don’t think I’m capable of doing that.

I feel so alone. My parents have left for Florida to make the arrangements, and I don’t have any family in town or the state to turn to. I can’t take time off. I feel like I’m cornered.

And of course, men don’t cry. Grown ups don’t cry.

It doesn’t help that I’m working on less than five hours of sleep, either.

I still want to give you a song today – the only one that seems appropriate, under the circumstances: Anna Nalick’s Breathe. I wish I could.