I feel guilty for not posting more often. I feel guilty for not feeling guilty enough. To have my co-author say I was “taking it hard” (it being Taigil’s disappearance) is an understatement. I’ve been rather despondent. I’ve done only the bare minimum necessary to keep going forward, and I’ve retreated from the world. I finally just did what was most necessary: I acknowledged the need to hibernate and told those around me that I’d be doing just that. It didn’t mean I stopped making meals, homeschooling, bathing; I just dropped away from the responsibility of having to address every email that came across my box and didn’t feel pressured to write except for those things that were most timely.
Today, we did a little celebrate Charlotte’s 1st birthday with a small bit of crab formed into a cake and a bit of salt-free sardine, but I ended up crying on the kitchen floor while I took her picture because she ought to be sharing it with her brother. Tomorrow, we pick up the kitten we adopted to be her new companion. His name is Cotton, he’s a lot younger than I intended to adopt, and the wrong gender according to my partner. But of all that cats I went to see (three visits), he was the best match personality- and energy-wise for our family. We were giddy when we walked out of the shelter after paying the adoption fee (he stayed to finish a course of medication; his last adopting family returned him to the shelter sick), but on the drive home, I bawled, unable to reconcile my happiness at having him with the loss of our other kitten. People we talk to say to keep hoping, but hope hurts. I most wish for him to return to us a survivor of his experiences, but if he’s passed on, I’d rather know than this perpetual absence.
And when people tell me to keep hoping, I feel guilty for wanting to just mourn him and move on. If I knew, I could give my grief a reasonable period of time to work itself out. Instead, I alternate between trying new things to entice his potential return to us, and wallowing in depression at having slipped up that night. He got out, and it’s my fault, and there was no way to know that this time he wouldn’t make it back as he had before. That damnable little voice that I never listen to when I should, that voice that said to be cautious that night–I ignored it and now he’s gone.
And people want me to have hope. People want me to not blame myself. But I am responsible for what happened that night, and I won’t hide from that. I hope for his return, yearn and pray and beg for it, but it keeps me raw and open and miserable as long as I do. But I’d hate myself if I gave up now only to find out that my lack of effort led to discovering some greater tragedy.
This state of living has affected my home life and my writing. Despite all the good things I’m doing for my body–I’ve been keeping up with my supplements and water, I’ve pushed myself to return to hydrotherapy classes–I’m wasting my energy on depression. I watch myself sit like a lump when inside I’m screaming to get up and move and accomplish and produce and live, yet nothing much gets done. The energy is there, it’s just being poorly spent, and the woman who offered to be my life coach flaked out in the worst way, which only made things worse.
But I had my hibernation, and now, I have to pull myself back out of the mire and start making this week better. Tomorrow, my daughter is scheduled to co-pilot a plane for Women in Aviation Week, the day we bring Cotton home, and it’s also my baby sister’s seventh birthday. Monday is Pi Day, and I have planned a whole day of pie (turkey samosas for breakfast, veggie-paneer pasties and fruit empanadas for lunch, chicken pot pie for dinner, and chocolate bourbon pecan pie for dessert). Tuesday, I go to the doctor to have my ear checked, Thursday is “Leprechaun Day” which involves corned turkey and cabbage, Saturday is the birthday of one of my boyfriends and a good friend of mine from when I was young and pretty. Sunday is Ostara, which means duck eggs for breakfast and lamb for dinner.
Oh, and my co-author and I are only one scene and a few interludes away from completing Book 3.
. . . If only I could get up and get it all done.
(Things I’ve been bad about in my Improving Raven Project: daily photos, stretching, exercise, and updating this blog with the new moon resolution. Things I’ve been really good about: supplements, water, meditation, and hydrotherapy. I think we’ll be heading back to yoga classes a week from Thursday, too. Since I missed the new moon, and have shuffled my resolutions around as I’ve gone, I’m just going to re-affirm the others I’ve already started before April’s new moon.)