![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Depression is familiar to me. Sometimes it swamps me. I've learned that feelings aren't right or wrong, they just are. I wish I had the time to sit in it and wallow. Sometimes being a grownup sucks. Committments exist and must be honored. I'll wallow in between things.
It will dissipate. Once processed, sad feelings resolve. I'm out of the denial part of grief and sliding into the depression part. Anger, if it happened at all, is already past. I had trouble sleeping last night. Thoughts about my cousin and how he plans to clear the house out fast kept bubbling up in my mind. I wonder what will happen to all the familiar treasures. His little place in the back won't hold them and I believe the cabin up north is full. I hope my aunt didn't leave me more than the cut crystal she always said would come to me. I don't have room for anything else.
The funeral was small. There were only about a dozen people there. It sucks to outlive most of your friends. One friend was there and spoke very sweetly about her dear friend.
What my cousin gave the minister to read amazed me at first, but then I realized it was true. His mother gave him a perfect childhood. His dad is another story. His teens were another story. But yes, until the day Scott was killed, Aunt Marge was the perfect "June Cleaver" kind of mom. I loved being at her house because there were no harsh words. There was no emotional abuse. There was love and a gentle but firm hand. The worst thing I ever heard her call someone was a "dirty dog."
My sister shared that the word "tickled" is an Aunt Marge word. I use it a lot. Somehow I never realized I'd picked it up from her. Everything tickled her.
The minister read what Uncle Jim wrote about his sister. She was tickled to tell people that during WWII she'd "pickled aircraft engines" for the Army down in Long Beach, CA. She was an aircraft mechanic. She refused the title because she said she never riveted anything but she did belong to the "Rosie the Riveter" group of women that took traditional men's jobs to keep the USA going while all the men were serving in the war.
The person I dreaded seeing didn't make it to the funeral. She and her son were lost. They showed up at the house afterwards. I knew she'd come. She was named after Aunt Marge. She's in very rough shape. Yes, reaping what she sowed. She has the heartache of her youngest daughter being seriously mentally ill and out of control. She has no teeth. She weighs about 400 lbs. She'll qualify for social security retirement benefits in a few months. Wonder if she'll live that long? Her younger brother brought up the topic of depression and OCD. I shared that I suffer from mild OCD and ADD and that I've dealt with depression and learning disabilities. Then right in front of my abuser, I told them my shrink thinks my problems are probably from frontal lobe damage that occurred from one or both of two things that happened to me at a young age, the car accident where I flew from the back seat head first into the dashboard of the car and/or from a suffocation incident. I looked at her as I said the suffocation incident and she looked down. HA! I have now had the courage to mention it to her. She remembers. She feels guilty. Good. I feel so relieved about that!
Anyway, working through grief isn't fun. I said goodbye to the wonderful involved Godmother I had when Scott died and she disappeared into a bottle. But still, actually losing the person still hurts a lot.
Don't worry. I'm an old hand at grief. I'm moving right along in the process.
It will dissipate. Once processed, sad feelings resolve. I'm out of the denial part of grief and sliding into the depression part. Anger, if it happened at all, is already past. I had trouble sleeping last night. Thoughts about my cousin and how he plans to clear the house out fast kept bubbling up in my mind. I wonder what will happen to all the familiar treasures. His little place in the back won't hold them and I believe the cabin up north is full. I hope my aunt didn't leave me more than the cut crystal she always said would come to me. I don't have room for anything else.
The funeral was small. There were only about a dozen people there. It sucks to outlive most of your friends. One friend was there and spoke very sweetly about her dear friend.
What my cousin gave the minister to read amazed me at first, but then I realized it was true. His mother gave him a perfect childhood. His dad is another story. His teens were another story. But yes, until the day Scott was killed, Aunt Marge was the perfect "June Cleaver" kind of mom. I loved being at her house because there were no harsh words. There was no emotional abuse. There was love and a gentle but firm hand. The worst thing I ever heard her call someone was a "dirty dog."
My sister shared that the word "tickled" is an Aunt Marge word. I use it a lot. Somehow I never realized I'd picked it up from her. Everything tickled her.
The minister read what Uncle Jim wrote about his sister. She was tickled to tell people that during WWII she'd "pickled aircraft engines" for the Army down in Long Beach, CA. She was an aircraft mechanic. She refused the title because she said she never riveted anything but she did belong to the "Rosie the Riveter" group of women that took traditional men's jobs to keep the USA going while all the men were serving in the war.
The person I dreaded seeing didn't make it to the funeral. She and her son were lost. They showed up at the house afterwards. I knew she'd come. She was named after Aunt Marge. She's in very rough shape. Yes, reaping what she sowed. She has the heartache of her youngest daughter being seriously mentally ill and out of control. She has no teeth. She weighs about 400 lbs. She'll qualify for social security retirement benefits in a few months. Wonder if she'll live that long? Her younger brother brought up the topic of depression and OCD. I shared that I suffer from mild OCD and ADD and that I've dealt with depression and learning disabilities. Then right in front of my abuser, I told them my shrink thinks my problems are probably from frontal lobe damage that occurred from one or both of two things that happened to me at a young age, the car accident where I flew from the back seat head first into the dashboard of the car and/or from a suffocation incident. I looked at her as I said the suffocation incident and she looked down. HA! I have now had the courage to mention it to her. She remembers. She feels guilty. Good. I feel so relieved about that!
Anyway, working through grief isn't fun. I said goodbye to the wonderful involved Godmother I had when Scott died and she disappeared into a bottle. But still, actually losing the person still hurts a lot.
Don't worry. I'm an old hand at grief. I'm moving right along in the process.
