Still, doing the sorting myself. Getting rid of boxes and boxes of the past takes a steep toll on my spirits. I have cajoled myself into believing that these are the easy boxes -- the ones with labels, the ones that I am able to keep or toss. These are other boxes of pictures and memorabilia. Some of that just needs sorting and order -- I've never managed photo albums. Maybe albums. Or possibly scanning is more appropriate these days. There is stuff from David's father's house that David took when his father no longer wanted it. It will be hard getting rid of that -- those halmark cards that his mother saved in the early years of her marriage. Hundreds, no joke. But they were far removed from David and he did not know what to do with them. What am I supposed to do? Burden my children?
So much is a burden on me right now. I am weighed down by it today. Digging has been going on for more than a week on the Bloomfield house. I haven't called the manager to check on progress. I don't really want to know why it isn't going well. If that is the case. Oh, where is my optimistic heart? I want the house sold, the estate closed. I want to be done with electric bills and whether the lawn is mowed. It is enough to keep my own house in order by myself, for myself. And right now, I wonder why one of my siblings did not offer to take the estate work totally off my hands when David died. Some offered help, but no one offered to do the job. It is hard to think of what anyone might have done as help -- and my nephews have helped when I have asked -- but to have been rid of the whole thing and just get a check when it is all over. There! That would have been a gift. But to excuse them, as I always do, who knew it would go on for so long? I certainly didn't. What was a few more months of paying bills and annoying people? But it is turning into more than another year.
A woman on a yahoo board expressed interest in the little girl that I applied to adopt. I hesitated and did not immediately respond to her query for information. Not that she can't get most of what I know through the regular channels. But I did do a bit of searching and found some useful links -- people who had met the child especially. And admittedly, I hesitated because I wanted this girl still on the list when they start giving single women waivers. So, I could give it another go. It took about an hour of selfishness to turn back and write a bit of a note. If she wants, I will send her addresses of people to write to, pictures that others sent to me. Maybe this child will find a family. Another release, whether I want it or not.
Two people who have read parts of this blog have referred to the writing as therapeutic. Something which has offended me. When I search for why I was offended because of course, the comments were not meant to be so, I am once again confronted by an ego, my ego. I don't think I fancy myself a great diarist, but then perhaps I do. Perhaps just writing the story down and putting it out there is not enough. I want to be thought of as brilliant, compelling, and thought provoking. Sorting through David's notes on stories, novels, plays, ideas, lectures, classes, and such is such a sobering exercise for me. I have not worked at anything as hard as he worked on writing. Full out. Full out. Don't ever just rehearse, life is for doing it all full out. Perhaps merely laying my soul bare yields therapy, and compelling takes drafts and editing and talent.
Oh my god, this all sounds so sad and sorry. I am having a bad day but I am not a sorry heap. I have no idea of what to make for dinner tonight and that is really the biggest challenge of my day.
I hope that in a few months or a year or so, I can re-read these sorry sack entries and know how necessary they were to my moving ahead with my life. And that is the most optimist thing I can possibly say today! That, and perhaps, Chinese take-out.