I miss my mom, part 2.
I was crying earlier. I don’t know what set it off. What I never knew about grief was how pervasive it is, how it inserts itself into every molecule of your being until you are grief, all of you, walking, breathing, giant grief monster. And what I never realized about myself is how grief spurs me into frenetic energy.
Sheldon Cooper, Ph.D., on The Big Bang Theory–which is a show I have seen but do not watch–often states, “I’m not crazy; my mother had me tested.” I think of this often, not just because of the reference to a mother, which slays me always, every time I read or think the word, but also because being tested is serious, and it is used as a joke in this series.
Not that I mind slightly risque jokes. They are needed, I think, to bring levity. We need levity in the world, of course. But the reason I think of it now is that frenetic energy as a response to grief seems to be Something Majorly Mental. That is to say, it seems awfully frenetic. Awfully awful. Awfully majorly mental.
When does the acceptability stop? When am I no longer forgiven for these frantic bursts of energy or crying? For my four hour afternoon naps, or my lack of energy or refusal to get out of bed, all events that have happened this week alone? Do I get six months? Twelve? Tell me, please. I need a timeline. I am a creature who craves rigidity and structure, to the extent that sometimes, I crave sameness. I resent change, and I loathe being forced to change. Yet at the same time, I look forward to newness. I love new semesters, love the Fall, love moving to new moments in my life, despite the fact that I can’t bring myself to order a new dish at my favorite restaurant.
(that’s why I go there. For that dish).
Thus, I have posted. I have read. I have flipped through books and magazines, hugged two dogs, watched TV, made phone calls, screamed into my pillow, ate blueberry pancakes with sugar-free syrup, emailed a famous author, blogged poetry and a short story, and all of that was just tonight, in an effort to forget my grief, just for a moment, or two.
The Postmodern Bluestocking 