I realized late in the day that six years ago today my mother died. Lung cancer.
Closing comments because I’m not asking for sympathy. Just noting it in case anyone wonders why I’m out of sorts.
It’s just a low-level, back of the mind kind of nagging sorrow. I really think I’m over it, and yet, here I am, still reminded of it and worrying if it’s causing me to be slightly more depressed than usual.
I mean, I already feel depressed; there’s very little that brings me joy lately, and I rarely have the energy to undertake any new project, and the projects I do work on (like my diet) just grind on and on and show no sign of improvement or gain, and most often I just want to sit in my house and surf or watch mindless teevee. But then, on top of my normal sadness, which is probably caused by the cold rainy weather this whole entire year, is layered a seasonal feeling of loss that I am apparently fated to feel in every June for the rest of my life.
Cary Tennis, an advice columnist to whom I grant the status of genius, often says that “it will take longer than you think, always.” It will take longer than you think to complete the grieving process, to learn to move on after a divorce or bad breakup, to heal your mental wounds from abuse or mental illness. Always, he says.
I understand that, but, c’mon. Six years? Really?
OK. I just know I’m feeling stressed, and sad, and in more of a mind to hide, lately. Where by “lately” I mean “for the past year or so”. I’ll keep on keepin’ on, but, y’know. Fuck this shit.