The week

I had a really good tomato salad on toasted baguette this morning.  It had the perfect balance, and I find I want no other taste, so I guess I'm satiated.

I felt an embarrassment of riches yesterday, and I prepared a bunch of food, but ate leftovers.  Half motivated.  Mostly stayed off-line, so even though I slept a good chunk of the day, I also managed to read, clean the bathroom, wash laundry (so, it'd have time to air dry...our dryer has been busted a good two out of the past eight months), go grocery shopping.  Feels decadent and productive; I blew off any expectations, feeling buried in "shoulds."

On Saturday, I took my sheets over to a friend's house to use his washer/dryer, as my drying rack can't accommodate them, and I'd been having night sweats and really needed to wash them.  Was holding out for the landlord to come through, but he just sent out a link to a laundry mat.  Sigh.  We went out for dumplings while the wash ran.  (The food was wonderful.)

I woke up on Friday morning with the right side of my throat swollen, as if I had inhaled an insect in my sleep and it had become lodged somewhere in my sinus tract.  Hurt to talk.  Hurt to swallow.  Went to work anyway because I needed to take care of some project stuff, but then went home after three hours.  Dosed up on elderberry syrup and tea and listened to the radio.  On Saturday morning, it hadn't improved, debated with self if I should go to a pharmacy and see if someone could run a test for strep.  Went for a walk instead, to visit the lake.  A misty rain greeted me when I got there.  Walked anyway.  Went to the farmers' market.  Smacked my head with a glass bottle because I forgot I was carrying it in my bag, and threw the bag over my head in an attempt to evade a crow's angry dive.  Made plans to meet my friend, and by the time he stopped by to pick me (and my laundry) up, the throat pain was fading.  By the time we finished lunch, it was gone.

Last week was rough.  Part of me thinks that throat pain was collective grief.

The prior Friday I gone to a professional baseball game, I've only ever gone to one other, and all I remembered about that was that we were in nosebleed seats, and the most interesting thing that happened that night was as giant carrot walking through the bleachers and people scrambling to get a picture with it.  I'd been on the fence about going again, but I think I'd said I was interested, and someone sent me a ticket in the mail, so that sealed it.  Anyway, this one was really fun.  I know next-to-nothing about baseball, but the people on either side of me were fans, and seemed happy to explain what was going on.  It was a good game, too.  We won, and there was a fireworks show after.

Saturday morning, a man in my basement told me my housemate was in jail for assault.  He was a friend who'd been staying with her in our house for a while, I guess.  I had to work at On the Boards, so I let it go.  While at work, I got a series of frantic texts from one of my other housemates, regarding the person I'd met earlier.  I don't know what's true, but my housemate was trying to get a hold of our landlord to get the locks changed.  Across the board, all eight shows of the NWNW were fantastic, but I was overly distracted during the final showcase because I was trying to figure out if it was safe to go home, and I was having trouble reaching anyone.  Finally, one of the men who lives next to me, told me he was home and would be home all night, so I wouldn't be home alone.  The housemate who'd been in jail, had moved out earlier in the day, but the stranger still had access to our house.  It was late when I arrived home, but without incident.

On Sunday, I went to the zoo, to get out of the house.  The landlord finally stopped by and changed the locks.  I called home for Father's Day.  Got some difficult news.

Monday, the head of my work area called me over, said he needed to talk to me.  My colleague's (and friend) partner had been killed on Sunday.

On Wednesday, my boss called me over, and told me another colleague/friend's mother had been killed in a car accident on Tuesday.

On Wednesday or Thursday, my sister contacted me regarding my parents.

I started reading a book of essays about sexual assault, "Not that Bad," Roxane Gay, and another book of first-hand experiences regarding the changes in the USSR/Russia since 1991, "Secondhand Time," Svetlana Alexievich, and seeing parallels.  And I kept finding myself holding my breath while I was reading, so much so that I had to keep forcing myself to inhale.

So, grief?  Yeah.  And I cried some last week for my friends, and for myself.  But I don't feel a great need to cry, and I don't know what to do about the grief.  It isn't overwhelming, still, solid, and assertive in the pain.  Maybe it only needed to be acknowledged.  So I did.  But I also want to take pleasure in things, like the feel of the sun, or the breeze, or the rain, or the perfectly balanced flavor of the salad.  To be present, and take care of what I can, and only that.  I'm trying to learn how to not dissolve into someone else's needs.  I'm trying to learn to stop losing track of myself.  I'm trying to learn to stay visible and real to myself.