What are you doing for fun this weekend?

 After Mike Swan died of autoerotic asphyxiation and spent 4 days in the apartment over mine rotting in the August heat (August, 1986), I could barely function for two months and I'd only known him for two years.  I got drunk every night for a couple of weeks.  I took the train from Salt Lake City to Oakland and then drove to Santa Cruz to pour wine into the sea.  I had already fallen in love with one of my teachers in Utah and Mike's death made me hold on to that man far more tightly than the relationship warranted.

This grief is worse, but I'm not getting drunk.  Sadly, I have too close a relationship with weed, a relationship that needs to end by late May.

I miss having someone that cares about me every day.  But I do not want to be in love again.  Ever.  I don't trust it.  With the exception of Will, the only people I've ever fallen in love with have been gaslighters and abusers (thanks, primary caretakers).

"It's the Id!" from Forbidden Planet

My subconscious has been casting around without my knowledge.   I catch it occasionally looking at people, making plans behind my back, couching its "innocent" needs in platonic terms.  But a thousand years of therapy has made it possible for me to notice after the fact those times with the old Id has been acting dodgy.

And then there's the fucking hospice.

I got a message on my phone from one of the CNAs that "served" us to call her.  This message came in on the same day I got their assessment sheet from SHP.  Hahahahahaha. I burned the fuck out of them - answering honestly.

And TWO WEEKS AGO I got two letters from the Hospice about how they offer grief counseling.  I sent both back to them with the note that it was TOO LITTLE TOO LATE.   

My life is confusing to me right now.  Why isn't the classroom safe for me anymore?  Why do images from the past year keep popping up in my head?  Why does my back hurt all the time?  Why haven't I done a good enough job making friends? 

My therapist tells me I'm a good person.  But I pay her to tell me that, don't I?  

If I were murdered in my house on Tuesday, after my exercise class, no one would notice until my missed appointments Thursday or Friday.  

I am not suicidal nor have I had cutting ideations for a long time now.  But I have no idea why I'm still alive except that I am.  I suppose I'll find out at some point.

When I was thrashing about in 1980 about what to do for the rest of my life, I told Will I wanted to help people; I wanted to do something to save the world.  And he said, "Wouldn't it be enough to just save one person?"

And I did.  And now that job is done.  

So why am I still here?