sleep...

Um, isn't the point of sleep that you wake up refreshed? Instead of exhausted?

Many dreams (I dreamt that the Emmys were unscripted and bizarre and more bizarre stuff...) and awaken to slam, slam.

Off to shower, off to work. Ugh.

still sick, sick of being sick

Major victory: for the first time in, a long time, I washed my face before bed. AND I exfoliated. And I put on night cream.

But you know what, I still woke up coughing and creating too much mucous. And pink Kleenex litter the floor of my apartment.

Ugh.

Lifestyle tips from Sarah Louise...tip #28

Not allowing yourself to grieve: not a good idea.

Telling yourself you are stupid to be so thin skinned that a single email can start the tears again: give yourself some grace.

But I do need to get out of this "me, me, me." Oh help.

Lifestyle tips from Sarah Louise...tip #36

After a big change, working every single day for six days and then not having a morning committment on the sixth, NOT the best idea. It may result in wicked insomnia and not having breakfast and meds until almost noon. Aaaaaack.

Watching the political shows on TV not the best idea either. (But I did see a minute of John Cusack at the end of George Stephenopoulous' show.)

Have just put Jerry Maguire in the VCR. Writing this while the previews play.

Did you know Mayor is one of those titles that stays with you after you aren't the active guy/gal? (As in Mayor Rudy Giuiliani.)

Internet, friend of Introverts everywhere

I'm tired. I'm cough-y. I'm grumpy. But blogging affords me a way to connect with my friends, create a little sumpin'.

They're called Angel Babies. Babies that don't make it to their first birthday. And I've been talking with my parents this week as I puzzle out the fact that I have no memory of the memorial services for my sister Joy, who was born when I was 5, and my brother, Peter, who was born when I was 7. Both were premies who died within weeks of their births.

It's called disassociation, when an adult has no memory of a childhood memory that was painful.

Apparently when I was told that Peter had died, I said, "Rats!" Apparently at Joy's memorial service, which was attended by my Granny, my Aunt Margaret, and my maternal grandparents (Grandma and Grandpa), I was glad to see all the people that loved me. And Aunt Pat (my mom's sister) was with me the night that Joy died, and Aunt Margaret (my mom's aunt) stayed with us that Christmas. Uncle Mark (my dad's cousin, a minister in the Reformed Church) performed the memorial service. Boy it was cold, my mom said. I drew my dad a flower during the memorial service for Peter. My dad might still have it somewhere.

Today a man came into the library. I don't know if he was the father or uncle, but he came to me on behalf of two teenagers, one thirteen, one eighteen, who were at home, couldn't go to school because of the death of their fifteen year old sibling. While I found books in the young adult department, he went back upstairs for a book I'd found on mourning a sibling death. It was one of the books he left behind, and reading the text, wooden and clinical, I could see why.

But since this week I have been trying to unpuzzle my lost memories, my lost sister and brother, I took a look. I found the website of an organization, Compassionate Friends, and their Pittsburgh chapter. I sent an informational email, since the most recent information on the Pittsburgh chapter website was about their August meeting.

I watched "Back to you," my new Wednesday night TV show, and got caught into "Til Death," when the phone rang. The caller ID was my parent's house. My parents NEVER call me, well, rarely. It was my mother, wanting to talk to me in case I wanted to talk more--I talked with my dad at least a half hour on Monday, taking three pages of notes. My mom told me that they got to hold Joy as she died--which had never been done before. It was clear she was dying, so the doctors unhooked her from her hookups, and my parents got to hold her as she died. My mother said it was beautiful, and that they thought that was the best hospital, for doing that.

I told my mom I felt silly, for something that happened so long ago. But my mom said, it's not silly. And she said, there's this organization, Compassionate Friends, for grieving parents, I wonder if they deal with siblings. You're a librarian, I bet you can figure it out.

So I have my parent's permission to pursue this grief. My body hurts, my head hurts, and I feel dull.

My mom said, everyone was so sad for Joy and Peter, and everyone was so happy when Sis came along. My words, when I saw her, asleep in a dresser drawer, "She's the most beautiful baby I've ever seen, can we keep her?" My dad heard those words, as he walked in, from work. Until that moment I had not liked babies, and now it occurs to me there might be a reason why.

Bro is in town (at my parents) for a wedding this weekend. How blessed I am to have two healthy siblings that I love to pieces. How blessed I am to have parents that love me to pieces. How blessed I am that I have two Angel Baby siblings. As I sit here, my hip is throbbing, from sitting in a funny position while on the phone with my mom, and my eyes are trying to decide if they want to tear up or not.

waiting for October to go...

Depressives know that the "banner" (if you could call them that) months are October and February. October b/c the light is changing, it's sandwiched between back to school (September) and let's prepare for Thanksgiving then Christmas (November/December). February has Valentine's Day and the knowledge that winter is still not over. Nuff said.

I'm doing pretty well for an October as things go, and have had my best summer in five years. That said, if I do not have work in front of me that I can do, I get morose and obsessive about email, blogging and do not want to do anything.

I think I'll go shelve some videos and DVDs. (Not at all in my job description, but it will get me off my duff and requires little thought. Right now I have little thought.)

This too shall pass. Update on the weather: it's cold out there. Well, cooler, at least.

Time to pull out handy Gerard Manley Hopkin's poem--see my other blog--the one about Spring and Fall and Margaret grieving...