On Friday I began a post about my baby brother, John. It was his birthday, and he would have been 55 if he hadn’t died in 2000 kidney cancer. He was 45. The post took on a life of its own and will be a blog, not a post. I see it as the outline, the skeleton of a memoir - my first. So, you won’t read about him here. It may be weeks before I write down everything, but when I do, yet another blog will appear on my page. I realize that I didn't finish my grieving for John, and now that Clint is gone and can't protect me from the things I don't want to deal with, emotions are bubbling up inside me like little volcanoes.
I spent much of last week “caving” and working around the house, pushing myself to complete physical exhaustion. I see that kind of behavior as a psychological defense mechanism, a way to reground myself after being out of town for two weekends in a row. Leaving my little house and my dogs is still hard, and I suffer each time I return. It was cold and nasty outside so I had the perfect excuse to withdraw and isolate myself.
Yesterday, there was misting rain and cold wind, and I could feel it in my soul. I forsook my cleaning and wrote about John until my tears formed a curtain between me and the page I closed my laptop, giving myself permission to abandon the work for a while I felt as though I had been beaten.
Today I don’t even need my patio heater as I sit here typing. The sun is coming out, and so am I. The birthdays, Clint’s and John’s, are behind me and I survived. Baby steps, 2 forward and 1 back (or sideways). It’s progress, however slow. It’s progress. And I’ll take it.
I think I’ll go out and buy myself some new lipstick so I can get the freebee from Clinique, then go over the Kristy’s. I haven’t seen her in nearly 2 weeks, and miss her (and she is making oatmeal raisin cookies)!