No time. No energy. No desire.
I have no time to devote to weeding my front yard. I watch the weeds crop up, grow higher every day. I scurry into my house, out of my house, to work, out of state, to my parents' house, to the group I attend for survivors of suicide, to the group I lead for eating disorders, to the store, to bed. I still have thank you cards to send and it's nearing 2 months since Rick died. I have a blog to write nightly for my own sanity.
I have no energy to devote to weeding my front yard. I'm sicker now than I was on Friday. Even though I enjoyed being with great people and wouldn't have missed choosing my best friend's bridesmaids dresses or attending her engagement party for anything, I don't even know how I made it through the weekend in Connecticut. I relied on makeup and copious amounts of caffeine and cold medicine to appear as human as possible. When I saw the weeds as I got home from Connecticut today, I almost cried. They are embarrassing. A reminder that my house is a house of grief.
I have no desire to weed my front yard. I look at it and I don't care. I feel ashamed that my front yard remains untended in my pretty, well-cared-for neighborhood where all the other townhouses are pristine and uniform. I wonder what the neighbors think. How annoyed they must be. But everything I have goes to my activities of daily living, and weeding is not among them. Tending to my grief is a full time job, because it's a constant dance to keep it at bay in order to work, play, and survive...to let it seep out slowly when I can control the ways in which I handle it...or to clean up the aftermath if a grief burst caught me unaware.
I need more sleep. More time off. More...
I can't take care of my front yard when I am putting all my efforts into caring for myself. That will have to be okay for now.