I don't want to talk about how I'm going at the moment, especially not here, because I know that there are people who read my blog who comment, either off or online about what I post, either to me or to my friends, which makes it difficult for me to move beyond a particular feeling, emotion, thought or expression thereof.
I don't want other people's input; I don't want other people's unsolicited input; I don't want other people's unsolicited-by-me input.
I'm finding everything difficult. I've been acting a lot lately because I'm sick of being down and I'm tired of being tired.
Today, however, has been a pajama day.
It's been a "I really want to eat a lot of chocolate and snuggle under on the couch under a blanket" day.
Little things keep reminding me of dad.
I was in Bunnings yesterday; it's possible that it was the first time since he died - I don't remember. Anyway, I wanted to cry but couldn't or didn't.
We - some friends and I - drove past the Kwinana grain terminal the other day and, again, I was on the verge of tears. It's a great fortune that I was listening to one of them give his testimony and, so, was otherwise occupied.
Someone talking about motorbikes, about single parents, about Rockingham, about Sarborough, about tatoos, about Canberra, about moustaches, about white roses; all of these things are hard to hear about.
|These roses are similar to the bunch I laid on dad's coffin (Credit: X)|
I completely missed it and didn't realise until almost the end of the following day that I had.
I don't want to deal with this anymore.
However, I recognise that fighting this battle is a gift; being able to fight it is a gift; having a battle to fight is a gift.
Well, the alternative of not being able to fight is doing what dad did and that, frankly, is not an option.
The alternative of not having a battle to fight is being dead.
This, therefore, is a gift, even if it's wrapped in layers of pain, lethargy and lack-of-blogging.