The ups and downs of grief

Since I've been without my computer, I haven't had my journal. This blog has become its temporary stand in. That's not great news for readers.

After a full day of writing I found myself at the place where you need to think more than write. And when I say think, what I really mean is talk. I've found that it is so helpful to me to talk through where I am in my process and what has me stumbling.

Then it occurred to me that it's not with just anyone I want to talk. I want to talk about it with my husband. We're not officially divorced yet, so it's still technically accurate to call him that, although it feels weird since he isn't really my husband in any meaningful way.

I walked into my house and my dog Sully was full on, head first into the bowl of pasta that had been on the counter before I had stepped outside. Prior to that she had been caught with a chunk of bread, and before that I had cleaned up my dog Libby's especially darkly pigmented puke from my light beige carpet.

As soon as I cleaned up the pasta mess, my brother's dog Spot started yet another fight with one of my dogs, and then a pretty serious fight with Sully. My sister's dog Shelroy jumped into the chaos (she was visiting us for the night).

And that was it. That was the last damn straw. I took my dogs to my room and closed the door. And I cried and cried.

I wasn't supposed to have all the responsibility for two dogs, one of whom is an unruly terror. I wasn't supposed to be alone. I was supposed to be happily married to my best friend, multiplying happiness and dividing grief. Instead, I am here alone dealing with more than I can handle. And I thought for the hundredth time that I wished I'd never moved to Eugene. And I wished for the millionth time that I hadn't gone the wrong way down a one way street and caused that crash coming up on four years ago.

The shortest distance between two points is a straight line. But grieving is anything but.