shelidonJanuary 23, 2025Leave a Comment

TW: Everything

Yesterday I was at a friend’s place: we got together over some oysters and the plan was to have a cry together. Which we did. She had a nice bottle of Pigato, too, a wine from Liguria I’m usually fond of. Thing is, I didn’t feel like drinking. Didn’t feel much like eating either.

Which is weird, because I adore every single thing she had on the table.
Which is weirder because I’m usually what some people would define as a heavy drinker.

I’m not an alcoholic, mind you: I have rules, and I do cleanse periods to check for dependencies, but I’m not the kind of person who has the occasional single glass of wine over dinner, and my drinking is connected to emotions, which is a tricky sign and one to look out for.

I drink when I’m angry, for instance. I also drink when I’m sad, sometimes, but it’s usually that kind of sad that’s looking towards some sort of possibility to be cheered up. Most of the time, I drink because I’m happy. I like drinking. I like the flavours of wine and beer and the stronger stuff, and I like the way it makes you feel, which, for me, is lightheaded and lighthearted. As much as I’ve jested about it, I never drink to drown my sorrows because the motherfuckers are far better swimmers than I am.

To fight my sorrows, I usually write. So here I am.

The last few weeks have been super tough, both from a physical standpoint and from an emotional one.
We’re still in the process of moving back into our house, and lots of my stuff still is at my father’s, and he doesn’t like it, and I know it, and he makes sure you know it. Moving is hard work. Moving in winter doubles the fun because of the rain and the resulting traffic, which means I’m mostly doing short trips by foot, carrying more weight than I should.
Also, my grandmother’s passing meant I made frequent trips to the nursing home, also by foot, in an effort to ensure she was well cared for and wasn’t suffering. I’ve walked 51 km in two weeks, which isn’t a lot, but it doesn’t feel like resting either.

Finally, my grandmother’s passing has been as tough as anyone with a bit of empathy might understand.
You look back at a life spent in sorrow, marked by illness and grief, you sift through the memory for little sparks or short periods of happiness, and you can find very few of them.

We used to play pretend when I was little, and I played Robin Hood and she had to be the sheriff, and she crafted me a little hat with a paper feather.
She was fond of Harry Potter, and we went to the theatre together to see the first three movies, until she didn’t want to come anymore because I was “too grown up”. I was 17 when the first movie came out. Maybe we weren’t doing it because I was a kid, were we?
She liked Elvis Presley, but only the music he did “when he was good-looking”.
She still had a pair of sandals Grandpa gifted her on Christmas day. Who gifts out-of-season shoes? Grandpa.
Still, as soon as you find them, you can find a glimpse of comfort, I suppose.

Toughest than the passing, the mourning unearthed memories of when I was sitting at that very same desk, at the funeral parlor, making the very same decisions for my own mother. What kind of coffin. What kind of flowers. Where is she going to be buried. Pick the car. Who the fuck cares about the car?

And the funeral. By God, the funeral. I’m not religious, and hearing a perfect stranger trying to guess what kind of person we’re mourning always feels like the utmost hypocrisy to me. Maybe I’m just jealous for the kind of comfort people are finding in religion.

And then there’s some petty stuff I won’t get into detail here.

Bottom line is: don’t be fooled by the content being published on the blog, because that was planned during the holidays. I hope you enjoy it, don’t get me wrong, but truth is I’m drowning. I know it because I’ve been here before. Bear with me.