thou art a heartless bitch

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.

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