Time to pull my head out of the holidays' butt. (Sorry for the visual and I sincerely hope there wasn't a visual.) I'm sure the maudlin tone of my posts since Thanksgiving have given adequate clues that I've been felled by melancholy this holiday season. I've written and erased many posts on grief and depression and sadness. Truth is I don't want to drag everyone down with me, and by everyone, I mean the 17 people a day who hit my website. Including others who are hurting hard this season as well.
And here's the thing about grief that is true and sucks and no one wants to really tell you. It never gets better. Life gets better. I mean, your life. The life that you are living. Because you have to live. But the sorrow never gets better, that gets worse. More time that passes is just that, more time. This year, this 2003 for me has been positively Dickensian: best of times, worst of times. I've seen my daughter grow into what appears to be a little girl. And I've said goodbye to a brilliant young man way before his time. No wonder I feel like I'm going to implode.
Thousands of people died this week in Iran, perished in an instant. The inexplicable keeps happening and we keep going on. Today, when I was telling someone about my holidays and how I was missing my brother, Mia put her hand on my hand as if to say it'll be all right mom. Although it didn't make any sense at her age, I'd never felt anything sweeter or more real.
So the good news is that 2003 is almost over. Scant hours remain. I'm feeling better, trying to stick my boot heels in and gear up for the next year. I mean, what is our alternative?
