If there is an afterlife with a panel of judges, then there is a greater-than-zero chance that this panel is composed entirely of dogs and cats. If so, I think their only question for you would be "Were you a good friend to dogs and cats?"
I'm pretty proud of my track record in that department, and you should be too. I can't prove this is the only standard you should judge yourself by in the middle of the night, but I've yet to find another standard that makes more sense. Who's a good girl? You are!
That sounds like an ephiphany to me! :) And it reminded me to go back and find something I wrote just after El died, to take your inspiration from the cute to the personal. I'll share it here now but it was written in August of 2021:
As I'm about to cry, frantically racing around the corners of my mind asking myself, who can I call? Combing a mental list, removing already limited possibilities: the retired pastor who seemed to care in an abstract kind of way, the girlfriend on a camping retreat with her husband, the distant friends who know my loss but in whom I sense helpless concern. I tilt my head back to apply those calming methods I've learned over the years to stop the tears from tipping the eye’s rim. Pooling in the corners. Then an answer comes to me. No one. You don't need to call anyone. Think about it. No one can share this with you. Your reasons and justifications and emotions, the stubborn way you do you. Aren't you simply avoiding writing it down? Why always talk? Why only calling, and crying, and feeling empty regardless.
I take four pills every morning. Each one is supposed to keep me healthy. Two are for my heart, one is for my thyroid. And one helps compensate for the lack of sunlight I receive, spending the majority of time indoors in front of a blue screen. That is what I’m doing now. Slowly consuming my pills with coffee, waiting for my guests to leave. Longing for my company to leave immediately and not wait until noon. I need their absence. This worries me for me. Not in how I behave towards them because they honestly have been quite considerate guests. But because I swing so wildly between wanting people in my life because it too is “healthy,” and then hating them for petty things and wishing for my solitude back in less than a week after they appear.
What are these petty things? Well if it’s a couple then its usually the man shutting the woman down that triggers the hard shell of my being to begin to form. It could also be the woman jabbing the man with a devastating blow so that while I admire the spunk, there’s also relief that I’m not the target. If I’m driving with someone I don’t like showoffs. Spinning tires on gravel either make me roll my eyes or cringe.
It is because the multitudes in me were at one time all those things. A bully, an abuser, a showoff, a fake. When I’m by myself I’m none of them. I am released from being reminded of my own shortcomings.
My dog never seemed to mind however. If I yelled or screamed or cried for days, especially those during his last days. I’m sure he was confused. Or maybe he just accepted that his master was always emotional. He was just there to be the rock. To absorb and dissipate all that anxiety and lonliness and fear. All those events that turned me from a bully to a victim and back again he remained a constant shadow. The flap of his ears as he shook his head and the jangle of his tags the only punctuation he could offer in response. I miss him so much. I miss his eyes always looking to read mine. To predict and expect. Our foreheads touching. But he was so sick. So sick that although I try not to cry, I understand that I released him and that was my last gift to him. I wanted to keep him forever. To wait until the very last minute. Were he human he would have told me how much he hurt and how I needed to let him go. I had to intuit this. That is the knife that still remains stuck in my heart. There is no cure. There is no comfort. The only thing I want around is gone now forever, aided by my own compassion.
If there is an afterlife with a panel of judges, then there is a greater-than-zero chance that this panel is composed entirely of dogs and cats. If so, I think their only question for you would be "Were you a good friend to dogs and cats?"
I'm pretty proud of my track record in that department, and you should be too. I can't prove this is the only standard you should judge yourself by in the middle of the night, but I've yet to find another standard that makes more sense. Who's a good girl? You are!
That sounds like an ephiphany to me! :) And it reminded me to go back and find something I wrote just after El died, to take your inspiration from the cute to the personal. I'll share it here now but it was written in August of 2021:
As I'm about to cry, frantically racing around the corners of my mind asking myself, who can I call? Combing a mental list, removing already limited possibilities: the retired pastor who seemed to care in an abstract kind of way, the girlfriend on a camping retreat with her husband, the distant friends who know my loss but in whom I sense helpless concern. I tilt my head back to apply those calming methods I've learned over the years to stop the tears from tipping the eye’s rim. Pooling in the corners. Then an answer comes to me. No one. You don't need to call anyone. Think about it. No one can share this with you. Your reasons and justifications and emotions, the stubborn way you do you. Aren't you simply avoiding writing it down? Why always talk? Why only calling, and crying, and feeling empty regardless.
I take four pills every morning. Each one is supposed to keep me healthy. Two are for my heart, one is for my thyroid. And one helps compensate for the lack of sunlight I receive, spending the majority of time indoors in front of a blue screen. That is what I’m doing now. Slowly consuming my pills with coffee, waiting for my guests to leave. Longing for my company to leave immediately and not wait until noon. I need their absence. This worries me for me. Not in how I behave towards them because they honestly have been quite considerate guests. But because I swing so wildly between wanting people in my life because it too is “healthy,” and then hating them for petty things and wishing for my solitude back in less than a week after they appear.
What are these petty things? Well if it’s a couple then its usually the man shutting the woman down that triggers the hard shell of my being to begin to form. It could also be the woman jabbing the man with a devastating blow so that while I admire the spunk, there’s also relief that I’m not the target. If I’m driving with someone I don’t like showoffs. Spinning tires on gravel either make me roll my eyes or cringe.
It is because the multitudes in me were at one time all those things. A bully, an abuser, a showoff, a fake. When I’m by myself I’m none of them. I am released from being reminded of my own shortcomings.
My dog never seemed to mind however. If I yelled or screamed or cried for days, especially those during his last days. I’m sure he was confused. Or maybe he just accepted that his master was always emotional. He was just there to be the rock. To absorb and dissipate all that anxiety and lonliness and fear. All those events that turned me from a bully to a victim and back again he remained a constant shadow. The flap of his ears as he shook his head and the jangle of his tags the only punctuation he could offer in response. I miss him so much. I miss his eyes always looking to read mine. To predict and expect. Our foreheads touching. But he was so sick. So sick that although I try not to cry, I understand that I released him and that was my last gift to him. I wanted to keep him forever. To wait until the very last minute. Were he human he would have told me how much he hurt and how I needed to let him go. I had to intuit this. That is the knife that still remains stuck in my heart. There is no cure. There is no comfort. The only thing I want around is gone now forever, aided by my own compassion.
This post gave me much food for thought. I am drinking my tea and contemplating.