Between the attack on Pulse in Orlando, an undeserved 30 day Facebook ban, and the outing of several abusers in my social groups this last week, I feel awful. I’m filled with emotions and !my usual outlet for them has been cut off. I’ve been in a state of near constant tragedy and financial emergency for the past three months and it shows.
My home is a mess, and I can’t ever seem to catch up with all that needs doing. There will always be more laundry and dishes to wash, more trash to take out, more mail to bring in. There’s a pile at the foot of my bed of clothes I would hang if I had hangers. But first I’d need extra money, my bills and then some, to afford the hangers and a ride to get them. So the pile stays.
My exercise routine is broken. The forty minutes of daily gym time has been replaced with two hours of supervising my son at the pool. Sunbathing is relaxing but it doesn’t carry the health advantages of the stationary bike. My anxiety levels are rising, but I feel too harried and busy to do anything about them.
Instead of working out and zoning out in the gym, I have daily errands to run. We can barely carry home each day’s groceries, and we can’t skip going back for more the next day. It’s a hot walk along a major road and sometimes male drivers sexually harass me, in front of my son. I wonder if they’re trying to teach him how it’s done.
This is a rough month for me. The tiny, petty complaints here are things I can usually cope with, but right now they hurt. Because I am flayed raw, incapable of ignoring minor irritations. If I dare consider the big concerns, if I let myself contemplate the loss of lifer and the hatred that still excuses it, I am afraid I will fall apart. I will cry and not stop.
But there’s laundry to fold and trash to take out and groceries to carry home. So I can’t afford to grieve.