hashtag realization
The thing is, in the aftermath of a tragedy or something of that ilk, people will ask - nay, beg - for you to reach out when you need to talk. Which is nice, really. I mean, unless you’re really great friends, they have no idea what they’re signing up for. You could be a hurricane in a teacup (which is how I like to think of myself), or a bottle rocket, or a mortar.
No one knows, but it is nice they offer. (If they didn’t, we’d judge. Having said that, though, some people just have the gift of comfort and you might even not notice that they didn’t offer to be your virtual shoulder. Best of all, you might even not care.)
[[as an aside, my head doesn’t really feel the same way it does when I’ve been drinking vodka. Is it the difference in how much I’ve drunk (drank)? Probably. I’ve had, for me, a sizable amount of bourbon. Considering my baseline is ZERO, as in, NO bourbon, six ounces might have made a dent (in addition to the lemoncello).
Anyway, I’m glad my head doesn’t feel the same. I have to work tomorrow, and my usual rule is no drinking on (my) Sunday night. But that recipe for
Fool’s Gold on the Basil Hayden website just grabbed me. Knowing I was coming home to bake and clean a bit, I couldn’t resist.]]
So yeah. Like I told (and then deleted from) Facebook a few minutes ago, I’m listening to the 1990’s country playlist on Apple Music and I’m playing chicken with my own emotions.
Ha ha. I’m stupid.
This feels more stupid than the weird pining I did for Dave. Like, he should gtfo. He probably would have talked me into bed. I dunno. I shouldn’t be cruel, I guess. I think he made room for my feelings. When I let him know, maybe he was fine. I’m trying to recall so that I can at least be accurate. If I can think of those places, I’ll edit.
To be serious, there is an emptiness that just...exists. It’s like a well that never fills up. I thought about it in Costco today. Like, you try not to make everything about your loss or whatever, but some days it’s unthinkable how you’ll do anything else.
Weird how you give alcohol time and it wends its way through your system and where one moment you were all ditzy and trains of thought that only last a minute and now you’re a bubble of sad that rises to the top of the volcano that is your brain (and emotions).
Everything goes on around you, like a music video, but you’re still the same. Left behind. Moving forward too fast for anyone to catch up. While I think it’s great that Chris kept my dad’s cell phone number so that I could still text it, sometimes it feels like a hindrance. I’m superstitious enough to not want to delete his number from my inbox. I’ve thought about pinning it, but those spaces feel like they’re meant for the living, although it would be nice to see just his picture and not the last sad thing I sent.
Sigh. I want to sleep. I want to keep drinking and smoking and writing. I want to shower and be alone with my thoughts in the fog of pot and grief and hot water, but the specter of an early alarm and work looms.
I have more to say, but my Kentucky lemonades have made this mindset transient, which probably is for the best. I have a mind like a steel trap and once I’ve caught something, I will beat it into the ground.
Perhaps some of this will remain through the night and into the morning, where I can begin again.
Now the miles I put behind me
Ain't as hard as the miles that lay ahead
And it's way too late to listen
To the words of wisdom that my daddy said
- Joe Diffie, Home