February.
Fine. Whatever.
I had six posts in January. Two were year-in-review and one was the monthly Last.fm stats. But there were three run-of-the-mill blog posts and I haven’t posted that much in one month since early 2016. Will it keep up? Who knows? I had a list of things I wanted to dump into a post and then the calendar turned over and the fourth of the month whacked me in the back of the knee to remind me that Joe has been gone for three months.
Apparently I stopped counting weeks in a pandemic to count the months since my brother died.
I assume at some point, some day, the fourth won’t punch me in the stomach so hard, but I don’t think it’s going to be anytime soon. February has long had heavy baggage associated with it, but now it’s heavier because Joe’s birthday is the 18th and he should be turning 55 and he won’t be. So far the more time that goes by, I think I just get angrier about it all. And yes, anger is a part of grief, but there’s more to it than that. There’s so much information that I still don’t have and so much I probably never will and the pieces I do have just infuriate me and THIS DIDN’T HAVE TO HAPPEN. But it’s not my story to tell.
Also. The universe needs to stop hurling the Frequency Illusion at my face. Too much talk of heart attacks, people born in 1968 dying of such, brothers dying in general, and also people named Joe suffering health issues of some variation. Stop. It.
I will say though, over the last three months, whatever unsolicited ransomware that godawful Zoloft installed in my brain that prevented me from crying even normal amounts seems to have been neutralized, because I can once again cry at completely random things that do not warrant tears of any sort. I don’t know that getting clotheslined by weepiness over innocuous things is necessarily a good thing. I’m not sure it’s really preferable to getting steamrolled by a sudden wave of grief, but beggars can’t be choosers.
I’m tired.
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Sailing On Ryan Star |