I guess I really should have written an entry yesterday. I went back to my mom's grave for the first time since her funeral. I don't know whether I was holding back because I didn't want to lose it in front of Shelli, or whether the one year cold plot of land really had no effect on me.
Tulips are her favorite flowers. "Because of my two lips," she would say, puckering up for a peck from my dad. I brought her red, though purple is her preference. Five bright scarlet blooms which joined the ranks of silk imitations standing guard over the rose granite headstone.
The sun slipped away, faded slowly, beyond the western mountains. We fled in an attempt to escape the cold and the dark.
It was really windy this morning. I didn't want to crawl out of bed, but my soul cried out, reminding me of my promise to attend the temple. Reluctantly, I left my sheets alone to freeze in my refrigerator of a bedroom. I am so mean to them. I promise to sleep in tomorrow.
Somehow, amidst the church music and the skirt wearing and the other goings on of the morning, anxiety crept in and seized my mind. It feels so much like a disease- it sneaks about, strikes without warning, and won't relinquish its hold until I have nothing left.
Minor freak out at Shelli's when I couldn't get in (just ask the doorbell).
Minor freak out at the temple when I realized I'd gone there selfishly, in fact, had been living selfishly for the last couple months.
The Noorda meeting was a relief because it was a chance to sit back and let someone else do all of the thinking, make all of the decisions.
It was almost more than I could bear to work out tonight. The days go by so quickly, and while I know it's good to get out there, I feel like I live at the gym. I had to just do one thing very slowly for a long time. It was very tiring.
People ask me if I'm okay. More specifically, Lou asks me all of the time. I guess it's good because it means she loves me, and that someone will always know what's going on. The problem with this is that sometimes I just don't know. I don't have words to describe what I'm feeling. I can't tell whether I'm actually upset about the dishes not being done, or if I'm just going through a depressive episode and I'll feel better about it in the morning. It makes me feel crazy. I hope I'm not crazy.
I hope I'm not crazy.