Perhaps, if you had been following along from the beginning, in the little house with the two cuddly cats (I still miss them terribly) in that quiet shaded neighborhood, you may already have predicted–or at the very least, not be surprised to learn–that I would be back again in my parents’ house, sitting at home with our beloved 15-year-old dog, broken again after more debacled essays at living; unemployed, single, hungry as a wild thing (At present, I can’t get the desire for all things chocolate out of my mind); and also hyperventilating mildly because of my antidepressant, which affects my breathing so that inhaling and exhaling and inhaling…etc. becomes a constant, conscious effort that I always balance in the background along with whatever else I try to do, however small it may be, throughout the day. It’s uncomfortable when you always feel stifled of your breath, but grief-induced vegetative paralysis is much, much more difficult to manage, and this pill is the only one that keeps the ever present, insidious grief free-floating stealthily inside me from spreading all through my being and soul like an amoeba and swallowing my ability to thrive until I rot slowly, and then rapidly, from the inside out. Continue reading
I have pondered and pondered and Googled, yet I remain stupefied by the most irksome Question of the Ages: Why, Mr. Really, Really Nice Guy, do you decide to reach out to me and spill your guts to me and commiserate about life with me and give me your number and email back and forth with me and say such nice things to me and suggest that “we get together sometime,” and yet, you don’t mention that you’re married?
So, in an attempt to organize my confusion, I composed the following list of questions.