Wow. I don't know what's harder to believe -- how long it's been since I've been here, how much has happened and gone unrecorded in those two blog-less years or that I'm back whining about the same topic as my last post.
Are blogs even a thing anymore?
Well, regardless, I have shit to unload and I don't want to shovel it onto the real people in my real life so once again, I shall dump it here where nobody has to pretend to understand and we awkwardly avoid eye contact. #beentheredonethat
So things have been good. Like, 65% good across the five Tobins and since that's an estimate from the quintessential pessimist, it means we are doing just fine. By fine I mean the world's definition of "fine" and not mine which means "sure, it's barely adequate but I'll accept it without complaint because even slight conflict makes me vomit".
The kids are bigger. Life is easier. I volunteer even more than in the past which SUUUUUCKS but hopefully it keeps my karma clean.
I've been rolling along, coasting on autopilot, when two things hit me.
#1 -- This coming Friday is a Friday the 13th.
Always annoying (Motherfucker, no matter what you say, I've got a worse Fri13 story than you. I'll see your flat tire on a dark road and raise you one murdered brother) but especially bad when it's a Friday the 13th in October, mirroring the day my brother died. My mother spirals out even deeper, leaving me feeling extra ragey and useless. I CANNOT HELP YOU BUT I HAVE TO TRY AND IT KILLS ME A LITTLE MORE EVERY YEAR TO ADD YOUR PAIN TO MINE.
#2 -- Math has never been my forte but driving home from nowhere special earlier today...
I realized that Friday will be the 22nd anniversary of my brother's murder and I'm 44 years old. That means that I have now lived exactly half of my life with the sorrow of losing him. Even now, when every part of my life has changed and bears no trace of his existence, that was enough to knock me flat. The symmetry left me breathless. I had to sit in the car for a bit to calm down and process that information.
None of the people who are active in my everyday life knew him. Not my friends, not my husband, not my nail lady, not my postman, not my children. If I never mention him, it's like he never existed. That hurts more than you'd think, probably more than it should.
To highlight that fact, when I came in the house looking squirrely because my face is a mirror of my emotions, Tom asked what was on my mind and for once, with minimal coercion, I told him. Then we stared at each other blankly for a bit and he went back to emptying the dishwasher while I went to my room feeling more alone than usual. No hug but what do I expect after he's spent 17 years with a sad sack like me? I mean, I get frustrated with my mother's grief and I'm living with the same loss. It's not his fault that he didn't know what to say. More time passed only makes it worse for him -- none of his attempts at comfort have ever worked so what is he supposed to do now, 17 years in with a wife whose grief is incomprehensible to someone who hasn't experienced it?
Why am I writing this down? I don't know. No one will read this and even if they did, they wouldn't understand the pain that is choking me. It's crowding my head and making me sad. I drank too much and ate too much in a vain attempt to shut off my brain. Never works but old habits die hard. Just like hopes and dreams.
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