PlazaJen: Passion Knit

I am telling you, working five days in a row is a bitch. And I even have the afternoon off. So maybe we should change that statement to four days in a row. Maybe it's just all downhill once you mention the word "working"; I dunno. All I know is, the process of grieving, the process of re-fortifying your fortress after a burglary, re-establishing your routine, the process of reclaiming your formerly-scrubbed and halfway-normal life, which is now an unwashed and unkempt life, like a runaway ragamuffin at the train station, who needs to be deloused and fed hot soup and put to bed with a hand-knit blankie and properly lectured when the time is right - all of this takes a whole lot of energy. Energy you don't even realize is pouring out of your pores into the universe. But it's why every night, and thankfully so, I sleep as though I have been drugged with horse tranquilizers and when a dogfight breaks out at 2 in the morning over who gets to sleep on the big pillow at the bottom of the bed, I snuffle and snort and have absolutely no impact on the situation. (Thank Goodness there's JWo! DogWrangler Extraoridinaire!)

A portion of my energy has been spent badly, fretting and being irritated with my mother. She is also grieving, and I cannot fault that - but in her desire to be the Ultimate Victim (Now with Lifelike Hair! By Mattel. Wine bottles and internet account sold separately.), she is trying to make me feel guilty, sad, bad about myself and my actions as they did or did not affect her throughout my father's illness, death and subsequent events since. But! Because I have gone through a rehabilitation of sorts, Therapy Boot Camp for Dummies, the al-anon for co-dependents and only-children with Excessive Desire To Please Syndrome (EDTPS), I recognize her melodrama and woe-is-me bleating for the rusty saw-toothed bear trap it truly is. However, it has not prevented me from spending four days being extremely angry and burning up some energy as my brain tries to quiet it, fold it neatly like a 400-thread-count sheet, smooth the surface one last time with the palm of my hand and put it away.

And, as usual with trying experiences, there is a lesson. A lesson I've learned and re-learned and put into practice any number of times over the years. I wrote about it some time ago, when things at the former employer were pushing me to near-critical levels - in retrospect, things that pale in comparison to the trials of this year. But that lesson originated from my lifelong conflict with my mother, and it is still true today: the handle opens from the inside.

Today? I'm spending my afternoon with a chair shoved under the handle and a wardrobe pushed up against it. Let the healing recommence.