Just Another Easter

Today it's sunny and breezy, but no threat
of storms, thank god. We've been bombarded
over the last 6 months or so.

My father was still alive on this day three years
ago. He was still at U of L Hospital waiting to come
home, which he did just 6 days before his death.
He never got to go back home--just hospital
to hospital. I think he wanted to go home, but knew
it would be best, perhaps, if he died somewhere other
than his own bed. I can't say. The last night I saw
him alive was April the 18th. It was a Tuesday.
He was lucid and at peace for the first time since his
ordeal began on March 26th. It's a good memory
to have of him, but I still live with the regret of not
having been at the hospital the day of his death and
the day before.

I think of all the things I could have been doing over
these last three years to help me: be a better person,
be a healthier person, be a happier person, be a stronger
person, be a more spontaneous person, be a better
listener, be a better mother, be a better friend, be more
open to new experiences, be a person who would live
in the moment. I have failed largely at all of the above.
What I have succeeded in doing is not something I am
so proud to write about. I have succeeded in becoming
more hopelessly devoted to alcohol consumption. I
have given myself over to it without much of a fight.
It is so easy to fall in love with a vice which provides
so much freedom, so much relaxation, so much comfort.
Yes, I know. Alcoholics say things like that. Let it be
known that I don't feel I am an alcoholic. I am an abuser.
I have gone a day or two without it and not craved it.
There are days I drink it now and really could care less
about having a drink except that it's kind of my thing
when I get home in the evenings. There are nights
I simply don't want it at all. What I want and what
I crave is the ability to let go all the insecurities, all
the questions, all the worries, all of the self-loathing.
And it helps do that. And I know it's only a momentary
release. But a momentary release is better than none.

So, in these three years, I have seen myself age.
And age rather poorly, I must say. For years, I
managed to look much the same. Now I see the
ugliness of neglect and lack of self-worth. The
puffy eyes, the bloated belly, the long hair I have
not cut since I lost my job in Oct. of 06--6 months
after losing my dad. The loss of my lovely, long
eyelashes. I can still see them when I wear mascara,
but they are much thinner now and not so long.
I have some facial hair--no moustache or anything
like that, but that downy hair on my cheeks that I
can see when the sun is shining on my face. And then
there are all those lovely broken vessels--those small
veins on the sides of my nostrils, which make me look
like a coke addict. And the deepening wrinkle between
my eyebrows. Then there's the lethargy. The hope-
lessness. The belief that I cannot change this part of
who I am, no matter how hard I try.
The sleepless nights. The brain fog.
The desire to lie around on a beautiful day instead
of going outside and working in the yard or walking
the dog or finding some kind of outdoor thing to do.

This is the frist spring I can remember in which I did
not start looking daily for signs of winter's end. I
noticed the hellebores, the crocuses, and the hyacinth
from my screened-in porch but made no effort to walk
outside to see them up close. To touch their petals
or blossoms. To smell them. To get to work cleaning
up around them. My yard is still strewn with ice-storm
damage. Lots of small branches everywhere. I won't
be able to mow until they're picked up. But I don't
care about mowing. And I don't care if the rest of the
house gets finished (the contractors didn't complete
all of the work last October, but that's another story).
I'm just tired. Of many things. But mostly of my inability
to change me. I have settled, I guess. And I don't like
it, but at least I don't have to keep fighting. Acceptance
has given me a reprieve.