How stuff is going around here.

Phew. Turns out what I really needed to make me feel whole again was a shakeup of my blog banner. That's better.

Hmm, it's been a bit of a mixed bag here at the Ingrate Homestead. I am mostly not leaving the house. That happens sometimes. In the wake of a spectacular griefy meltdown last week, I decided that it was time to visit the doctor, and came home with some magic beans, 20mg of which will be planted daily until the vine of good mental health shall burst forth (in approximately two weeks, though your mileage may vary).

I was pleased that the lovely man was able to accompany me to my appointment, to act as a witness. The doctor was chatty and nice but also laughed at odd times and then, at what I felt was the world's most inappropriate moment (you know, having just asked about suicidal thoughts), told a lengthy and completely irrelevant anecdote about his young daughter. I mean, sure, I have no doubt that she's snowflake-like in her perfect uniqueness, but context is everything. Also, that unexpected 45 minutes we spent in the waiting room while you presumably regaled each patient with similar anecdotes maybe put us in the wrong mood for your gentle humour.

In the meantime, I've kept the expectations low. I was required to cater a small dinner party for neighbours, on account of having invited them a long time ago but cancelling when my grandmother died and I had to fly to New Jersey for the funeral. Yes, it has taken almost two years to get the date back in the diary and, although my dog recently died, I couldn't bring myself to reschedule the dinner party because you know, damn, if I have to reschedule this thing again, who knows when my neighbours are going to stop causing the deaths of people I love? Their supernatural invitation-related wrath knows no bounds. Allegedly.

About three hours before they were due to arrive, the lovely man and I swept through the supermarket in less than half an hour, rushed home and while he raged though the house cleaning and moving clutter and mess up the stairs, I made chicken with lemon and olives. I forgot to add the olives, mostly everyone got quite drunk, and no one was hurt. My remaining loved ones can sleep soundly in their beds.

I don't know about you, but when I am feeling off-colour, I like to hunker down with something that is absolutely guaranteed to divert my attention from whatever is ailing me. This time I'm going for the entire 9 seasons of Seinfeld, plus a few choice weblogs. I open a blog to a random page in the morning, and read my way through a chunk of the archive throughout the day. Undoubtedly, stats will reveal my hours of lurking so let the record show that my intentions are entirely benign. If you find I've parked myself on your blog, it is likely that you are cheerful and soothing. Thanks for that.

Feeling sorry. For myself, that is.

For obvious reasons, you will never medal in the grief olympics when your dog dies. You won't even make the team. Possibly no one outside your immediate circle will notice, and not two weeks after the event, a friend will ask if you still feel bad.

But from inside, it feels different. I am lonely for my friend, who I loved and cared for daily for more than thirteen years. I miss the smell of her head, and the sound of her breathing and the way she was always there. The house is very quiet.

I expected to feel sad, but I am kind of taken by surprise by the existential turn of my thoughts. Ashes to ashes stuff. It's like I'm in a hole where nothing makes any difference and what does any of it matter and it's all lost in the end anyway and there's no god and I can hear the emptiness of space, etc.

That's why I'm not doing much here, because I'm aware of, on one hand, hello hyper-melodrama and on the other, oh my word my heart is broken and oh look my guts are all hanging out and I'm sure that isn't good.

I must admit, I did find this bizarrely comforting as well as fucking funny, so maybe read that instead.

(And now this my most recent post and not that last one. Thank fuck for that.)