Discovering Death

There are those days–the ones where your strengths and weaknesses decide they will work together in solidarity.

Yesterday was one of those days; full of plans that I planned all on my own, completely alone. I’d forgotten what a full day felt like and so did my anxiety.

12:00 p.m., I made it to the Women’s March, an hour late. At the rally, I recognized an old friend, made my hellos and used a generic bathroom escape, within a few minutes. She had been dragged there by her sister, so I obviously needed to get away, in order to inhale what the rally had to offer.

1:30 p.m., I headed to one of the after rally gatherings, mainly because I wanted to buy a button for my collection of useless mementos, and felt it necessary to order a Blackberry Grisette along with it. While in line I met a woman. We chit-chatted, in the regular Kansan form, which was directed by her ownership of a beautiful, year-old fur-baby. She parted by telling me she was running for Congress and I let her know she had my vote.

Did you know that Trump is the only modern president without a pet in the White House?

For the next 30 minutes, I sipped the beer, and attempted to read a few pages from a book I’d been given, nearly a decade ago: Lost in the Meritocracy, by Walter Kirn(I imagine I’ll revisit this book with you after I finish it; the gift giver and the content currently ambush my anxiety meter).

Being alone in a public, social setting was something I can’t remember doing for years on my own. Yes, I can easily shop on my own, run errands on my own, etc..

But to rally,

On my own.

To sit down,

In a room of unknown antagonists!

And overcome.

It only lasted thirty minutes, but I hurriedly finished the Grisette and got back in my Saturn Vue. My anxiety asked me to take the back roads(think back to the video in the post titled, Driving with my Brights On, this time in daylight). This trip entails driving past my ex-in-law’s house, and it was my ex -fiancé’s Birthday. Needless to say, my anxiety peaked, again.

It was getting old; Attack. Attack. Attack!

Weakness: a two syllable word which led me to the liquor store and the cemetery, where my father is buried. It was a maintenance call, really, my trip to the cemetery. And time to replace the bird feeder, which looked as if it’s been hit by hail, since my last visit.

The sheer fact of having that the 200ml bottle of Crown in my grasp, made my trip to the cemetery a solemn one. I cleared away the leaves and overgrown weeds of the 14 year old headstone, before I meandered towards Dustin’s grave, about 100 feet away.

Halfway to Dustin’s grave, I was stopped in my tracks by a fresh rectangle of dirt.

“June 1, 2017”; but that’s not possible; how was I ignorant?

I cried in disbelief.

I continued to Dustin’s grave, as I had planned.

I meandered back in the same order.

I went home.

Strength, a one syllable word; I refused to open the bottle.

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