The grieving process is a strange thing. I don’t think anyone knows how it’s supposed to go. Perhaps it helps to realize what stage you’re supposed to be in, be it denial, anger, bargaining, and so on. But I don’t really think so. I think we all kind of muddle through. There’s no really set way you’re supposed to act. There’s no etiquette. No rules.
I have no idea what “stage” you could say I’m in. I think still denial. There’s some comfort in finding a familiar routine, as if upsetting the apple cart will tip you just over the edge, but then again routine can seem to ask too much of you.
I realized yesterday that I spent the last four days in the same pair of pants (my black pajama pants – so desirable because of their comfort and the fact that I can wear them out of the house without looking like I’m in my pajamas.). My meals were composed of grilled cheese when I attempted to cook for myself, or a menagerie of the different takeout venues along my street when I didn’t.
My patience is lower. My emotions are closer to the surface, I guess.
I’ve drank a lot of tea. But nothing beyond basic orange pekoe.
When I did see my mom last Thursday, it was interesting to see her fall right back into that knee-jerk Englishness she usually hides so well. A pot of tea was made and she clearly put up an emotional wall.
It was difficult.
I’m probably going to be writing a lot more. Either as a distraction or as therapy. I’m not sure which yet.
I divide my time between a variety of poverty-inducing ventures: writing for fun and writing for torture; watching far too many movies and reading far too few books.
I have lived previous incarnations as bookseller, bureaucrat, filmmaker, zinester, student, and wayward traveller. I studied Film at Langara after seven years at Simon Fraser entrenched in English, Archaeology and about every other Liberal Arts and social science topic you can imagine.
I am very good at Trivial Pursuit.
I am related to Dr. Samuel Johnson, writer of the first English dictionary, which explains my perfect spelling and penchant for black cats.
I once lived in a house in the South Hill neighbourhood of Vancouver with six people, four cats, one goldfish, and a vegetable garden for a front yard. We called it The Commune. It was where I lived with my husband before he was Husband, before he was Fiance, before he was Boyfriend, back when he was just Boy Roommate. Life was a sitcom and we were the “will they/won’t they.”
We did.
Once we ran away to England because we like having adventures. But we didn’t like it that much, so we came home again.
I have the personality of a superhero’s alter-ego. Only I don’t fight crime. At least not yet.
I am currently obsessing over romantic comedies and hosting murder mystery dinner parties (online these days, of course!).
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