While outwardly I seem to be doing okay in the wake of my mother’s death on Sunday, inwardly I feel incredibly brittle. Last evening when I got home I discovered that the new litter box I bought a week ago isn’t going to work. There was a puddle of urine on the floor just past the edge of the box, mirroring one I found on Monday when I got home from Illinois. In cleaning up the mess I managed to spill several pounds of litter on the floor. Fortunately it had already been scooped but I was pissed (sorry) nonetheless.
As in the weeks immediately following Michele’s death last October, I am discovering that it is the little things that set me off. The distance between calm and collected and gibbering maniac is almost non existent. My rampaging emotions are starting to effect my cats; both are skittishness and poor Nekko has taken to throwing up her food. I think the time for intervention is here. I can no longer put off the need for one-on-one counseling.
The suicide survivors group is good and I feel that I am getting something important out of it. However, it only meets once a month, and I don’t always get to expose my stuff there. (Particularly the last two times as there has been a very self-centered and verbally energetic woman who has monopolized the time for herself.) Paying someone to focus on me for an hour or two each month maybe the way to proceed.
After this coming weekend, time will be under my control again. I won’t (for a little while anyway) feel like I need to travel to Illinois every couple of weeks. I realize that I have been tense for most of the last seven months; and further that this unending tension has made me brittle and prone to breakdowns and outbursts (Sounds like the name of a new country album.). I just need to find a constructive outlet for my anger, depression, anxiety, fear, sorrow, madness, apathy, loneliness, and ennui.
