Tags
blame, furlough, grief, pandemic, responsibility, self-care, The Prisoner
Ms. Anne sent me home from the coffee club yesterday. It wasn’t exactly home she described. The best thing she said? “Your attitude is stinking up the shop. I don’t know what your problem is today, but take the day and figure it out.”
So I left.
I confess that I was in a funk. Nothing seemed right. Nothing worked. Everything was wrong.
I overate. I binge-watched Patrick McGoohan in The Prisoner because it seemed a show right for these days. I drank soda and whisky and ate pretzels and basturma and nearly everything else I could find in the fridge and pantry.
I tried to blame it on the president, but, despite his weaknesses and strengths, he had little to do with my mood.
I tried to blame it on the pandemic, but this was simply another day in the many days roped together by the coronavirus.
I tried to blame it on book sales, but my sales figures come every January.
I tried to blame it on the neighbors, but they’re quiet, keep to themselves, and I don’t know them.
I knew that I couldn’t blame my funk on the rabbits that visit our yard or any of the other creatures in the area.
At 6 PM I came upon a reminder that this day was the anniversary of my mother’s funeral, an event that happened in 1984, and somehow my unconscious mind had stirred up a grief of which I was unaware. When I recognized that unconscious grief, life became much more normal. The day became lighter.
We think that we resolve issues of grief, but grief has a way of circling around again and again at different levels and in odd ways. Awareness helps.
Today I’m enjoying work at Ms. Anne Thrope’s.