Spontaneity seems to be in short supply for me right now.  Not having a plan in place annoys me and conversely I don’t seem to be able to make a plan.  It is as if that part of me has been put on hold.  I hate it.

I get things done, but for the most part it is at the last minute and by the skin of my teeth.  So far, to my knowledge I have gotten most things done, and if I haven’t then I will probably find out soon enough anyway.   I was going to say , nothing had “fallen through the cracks” but I abhor that phrase now.

I go off on tangents.  Like thinking about phrases I never paid attention to before and now feel myself contract when I hear them.  There is a commercial that says, “no one wants to go out without making a difference!” and then the lovely “hitting rock bottom.”

I hate it when people , well-meaning, loving, well-tolerated people, continue to use this phrase , “at least he” in referring to my son.  At least? How about “at best.” He lived his life at best.

I used to love gray rainy days.  They are setting my teeth on edge now.  I am going to burn out my little SAD light.  And sunny days annoy me too.  How dare they be so beautiful with their long graceful shadows draping over the mountains.   Then there is the time change thing.  It gets really dark before my husband gets home and let me tell you the dogs get antsy and bark and make me really nervous.

I thought I had been holding all this down quite well over the past few months, but I think it has been building like a tide and yesterday I went into the bedroom with all my son’s boxes of clothes and yelled at them.

I am so angry that he is gone.  I really need him to be here.  I don’t like having to be here without him.  And yes, I am sad at all the things he should and could be doing and will never do but  all that seems to hover around my head like a cloud of gnats all the time anyway.

I have not allowed myself to be angry at his choice to be a rock climber.  I pushed that away so much and tried to wrap it up in more acceptable trappings but I am angry at him.  How dare I be angry at him!  He’s dead.  He can’t defend himself to me.  We are all making choices every day and one of them may eventually lead to our death in one way or another.  How dare my adult son be allowed to make his own decisions! right?  I hate alter ego talk. It makes me angry too.

Some days I think I am like poor Frodo in the cave with the spider webs.  It’s a sticky walk through grief. I hate walking into spider webs.

You know when your husband does something that annoys you, you can pout or pull some passive aggressive behavior out of your bag of spite, or shoot him a look and push the button until you get that fight started you have been looking for.  I am fighting with thin air here.   A box of clothes , a photograph, and in them all – by the nature of the beast – he is smiling.

If I didn’t have an allergic reaction to the cold, I would go sit out in the rain and commiserate with the puddles.

It feels really good writing this. I am a mess.  An oxymoron personified.

“How are doing?”

“Oh I’m fine.   A fine mess.”

I yelled at my son, and he can’t stop me.  He can’t fight back.

I hate being angry with my family.  They of all people don’t deserve it.

I know there are ways to help me stay on top of the stuff I need to do and I put them in place for a while, but then, I drift away.  I forget the list.  I loose the scrap of paper.

I’ve always done that to some extent, but this is worse.

Next week is Thanksgiving.  I ordered a turkey.  I have a lot to be thankful for.  I really do.   I’ll make a list of what I am thankful for, but I’ll probably loose it.

I felt a guilty for yelling at my boy, my baby, my sweet pea.  I just miss him so much, and there is no help to be had for it.  I will feel this way till I don’t feel this way anymore.

Okay, I’m putting down the pingpong paddle and I’m gonna stop batting this ball around – at least for today.   I hate it when people belabor a point.