Monday, May 30, 2005

An outpouring

Today's post is sort of a cleansing effort for me, so perhaps you should skip it.
I expect to be back to my regular snarkastic self soon.


FIRST of all, however, I wish to extend my thanks and my love to each and every one of you. The comments and emails that you have sent in support, sympathy, and caring truly means the world to me. Thank you for being there for me. I won't forget that. :)


SECOND of all, I wish to thank you for following my command as Queen of the Universe joining me in wishing Rory a happy birthday. I think (hope) she enjoyed hearing from you. It pleases me to send some sunshine, and it pleases me that you helped accomplish that.


Here's the part you might want to skip...

I feel a little bit bad for skipping church yesterday. Guilty, I guess, is what I'm feeling. After all, my people in the church are Grams' people too. These same folks have known & loved us (and we them) for more than 20 years.
You'd think I'd want the comfort of those people around me. Perhaps offer a little comfort in return.

Unfortunately, I'm not wired that way.

I want, I need, to be alone.

My misery does not love company. In fact, my misery eschews company completely.

I've never been one to share my grief through intimate contact with others.
I can't and couldn't do the hand-holding, hugging and kissing and crying thing.

Don't get me wrong~if it is your misery, your grief, I would readily and willingly step to the fore. I would hold your hand, kiss your lips, hug your neck, and whole-heartedly offer a shoulder upon which to lean or cry. I would share your tears.
I would do it without even one second thought.

But when it comes to my own...
*sigh*
I can't seem to manage that.

I know we all deal with things in our own ways.

Mine? Solitude.
I did seek solace with my dogs, silly as that may sound. Sitting quietly on the porch, allowing them to lick the tears from my face.

Then I did what comes naturally for me in times of great grief~~I reached for a favored book or two.
I closed my bedroom door (after making sure my kids had all their needs met), curled up in bed, and started reading.

As an escape? Maybe. But not really. Mostly because it...centers me, I guess. Grounds me.
Does it sound cold? Unfeeling? Emotionless?
It isn't.
I don't mind letting my kids see my tears when I explain what happened. I think that's healthy and natural.

But at odd moments, a thought, a memory will crowd aside all else and I will have periodic bouts of weeping. I don't want my kids to worry, which my daughter (Queen Worrier Extraordinaire) would do.

And the type of book I choose for these moments is, strangely enough, horror.
Usually I choose Dean Koontz.
I figure it's because in his books, good always triumphs over evil, Heaven wins over Hell, and there's a little romance thrown in for good measure.

Today we (my parents, anyway) are having family over for a cookout, as previously planned.
*sigh*

I've got a little more hibernating I need to do until then.
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