Humblest apologies

So I've been sitting around feeling sorry for myself a lot lately. I make no excuses. Rest assured, though, I'm seriously bored by the concept.

I never said I was always happy.

Today is the day. Not just any day but the day. The day that marks start of the tenth year since my mother died. Seems like an odd point to make.

I often get depressed at this concept multiple times a year. And it's not about how many years that I've lived with a dead mother but the lifetime of occurances that have, well, occurred since she died.

I adopted a dog.
I moved into my home.
I bought a new car.
I got married.
I had a daughter.
Soon, I will have a son.

These things have little to do with ten years. But I suppose that saying it like that is more dramatic. And shorter.

I don't feel all that depressed today. Mostly I feel resigned. And accepting - after all, after ten years I've begun to get used to it. I do feel guilty because I'm not more depressed. Somehow it seems that I owe her a little more heartbreak. She would probably say that it is her due.

The big secret has nothing to do with this day but everything to do with her death. About a year ago, I realized that I hold a basic belief that I contributed to her death. Screw cancer; it was my fault. Crazy thought, I know, but true. I'm (at least partially) convinced that if I had simply Believed enough in recovery, Hoped enough for remission, found enough Faith in the positive outcome that she would have lived.

I also realize that this is (at least partially) a delusion on my part to avoid accepting the complete lack of control I had over her disease.

I could have willed her to live. I didn't.

Yes. Delusional self-pity. Joy, eh? The real rub is that I no longer have faith in my own lies.

Today a friend floated the idea that we hold grief in our lungs. She said that there's a poem in there somewhere but she hasn't found it yet. I can't wait to hear if she does.

Habits are hard to start

I have written a line of poetry in months. Ok - in the spirit of honest blog-ness, I haven't written a remotely acceptable line of poetry in months. I just can't seem to find a string of thoughts to put together.

The last time this happened to me, I got back into the groove by forcing myself to write every day. Slog through the crap, and eventually the decent stuff starts to shine through a bit. I've been meaning to get back to daily slogging, but so far I just stare at the empty page thinking about the other things I should be doing.

I'm continuously amazed at how much laundry piles up over the course of a few days. And how quickly the white shower base goes gray with soap scum. You wouldn't believe how the dirty dishes cover the kitchen counter.

These daily menial things have created some large roadblock to creativity. At this point, I'm too tired to try to climb to the other side.

I would love to say things are good but things aren't quite that nice. It's a bad time of year for me anyway and all the added bumps are throwing me around. The last few weeks have made me yearn to be a smoker again, so I take deep inhales of clean air instead.

I miss everyone.