This is my first attempt at writing about Kurt, and it won’t be the blog I eventually write. I guess I want to write about me more so. It’s been so long since I have written about grief this deep, that I have forgotten how it works. Losing Steve was a slow process, so as hard it was, I could do it in baby steps.
I come from a long line of women who are too strong for their own good, and those haunting of words of pulling it together run thru my head. Logic battles emotion so strong within me.
I’m tired of saying “Thank you”. I feel like an autobot.
“Thank you for your kind words” comes second nature to me the past four days. I mean it, but it feels — false. So I try not say anything. I’ve insisted in going back to work. Being home has no place for me. I just wander, and I think.
Drinking hasn’t helped. Well it did. The second night. I drank a bottle of wine on an empty stomach, and then opened another, wondering the entire time why I wasn’t getting drunk. But the pain was diminishing. It was dulling. I felt sober, because of the adrenaline I imagine. I even noted to a friend that they should take my blood because *I* had finally figured the cure for non-stop drinking without getting drunk. Shows how sober I thought I was.
Friday I had Steve’s memorial service. More of a like a gathering of good friends. I drank like a fish that night and got very drunk. Aware drunk, not like the night before. I am sure to some I looked callous. “Hey look — that woman’s son just died and she’s partying it up like it’s New Years with her gigantic glass of champagne!” Word had embarrassingly come up about my own loss and I was mortified at the mentioning of Kurt. Like I was trying to steal Steve’s thunder. I cried when they spoke of Steve’s life. For Steve? For Kurt? Both I imagine. Then I drank more. My two friends kept forkfuls of food in my mouth like an errant three year old that wouldn’t sit still to eat her dinner. First food outside of two bites of popcorn in 48 hours.
When my mother died, I needed people around me all the time. The alone time was this sharp knife that kept slicing me like a thousand paper cuts. I couldn’t take the silence.
With Kurt’s death I neither want to be alone, or with people. I had to cancel plans with my best friend last night. I was exhausted. In every sense of the word I was exhausted. Probably a bit hungover, but just typing words out to people tired me. Banal conversation would have been fragmented at best, and talking about him — I couldn’t do it anymore.
When I was in Mexico a few months back I obtained a prescription for Xanax. I already had one from my own doctor for panic attacks, but I figured if I ran out of those, I’d have these without going back to my doctor. I always hate asking him for those, even if a sixty day supply lasts me a year. I usually only use them on Sunday nights to help me sleep. Even then I can only take half because drugs stay in my system so long, I wake up groggy. The Mexico ones are strong. Even a .5 feels three times stronger than what I have. I took a half of one of those yesterday because I felt a full blown panic attack coming on and I was alone. When they hit I feel like I cant breathe. I have to logically and slowly remind myself of what is happening but it wasn’t working, which is fuel to a panic attack. So I took another half and sleep hit. I slept the entire night on the couch — the jewelry channel on TV, and all the lights on. I woke up thinking it had to be about midnight and was shocked it was six AM. I crawled back into bed, and when I finally forced myself up, about twenty minutes ago I felt that tightness in my chest that only meant more tears were coming.
Instead I decided to write. Cry my words out here. Writing is my drug. It silences. It heals.
Work will be hard. My director thought it was best that everyone know, but I hate being treated with kid gloves which is how it will come. I don’t want to talk about it, I texted a friend. Please spread the word. She asked if flowers were okay and I said yes. Except now people who don’t know will wonder why there are flowers. I want to put a sign on them that simply says “Don’t Ask”.
I know there are phases of death; Grief, denial, anger. Others I think. Five? Doesn’t matter. I feel like I’m in none and all at the same time. Like some weird mud ball has encapsulated me. I want people to live their lives without worrying about me and at the same time I hate that the world has gone on like nothing has happened. I DO recall THAT with my mothers death. Being mad at the world that everyone wasn’t stopped — motionless in grief.
Anyway, the coffee, the writing has helped a bit. I have to get his story out. Our story. It’s the nail driving this for me. Maybe later today. I also need to stop for a moment here and there and remind myself strength isn’t the be all and end all. That numbness is natural too. That sometimes life WILL feel normal, and its okay to fall into natural rhythms and then fall back out for a moment.