The practical

I have been focussing on many practicalities lately. The plaque for Tristan's grave...oragnising paperwork, filing, sorting and reordering my shelves, etc. All the things which serve as a distraction for channelling my thoughts (not really energy). I feel like I am making more of a mess than really resolving any storage issues. I have all these intentions about clearing away and throwing out those bits and pieces I haven't even acknowledged for the last X number of years, but I am not really having much success. I just seem to get lost in the piles and then move them from one room to the next. 

We went south to Melbourne for a few days last week - to get away. Almost everyone had been telling us not long after Tristan died that we should get away - it would be a good idea to get a change of scene. We agreed and initially thought that we would take our new big baby car on the trip - now that its purpose had been diverted and that we would head off sometime in the early new year.  How brave and big we talked. As the days past new year ticked by, we really hadn't spoken about what we would do about the trip. The reality for me was that taking that big car on the road was frightening. It was a commitment to move away from the security of my home. My home has been that refuge for us both to hide out - ignore the phone ringing and just wallow. The nine hour trip from Sydney in the car seemed all too much, because I could not cross my arms and blink my eyes like Jeannie and be home in an instant if I wanted to. We came to the conclusion that it would be best to fly down and leave our end date open, because knowing that I could get on a plane home with a moments notice made me feel secure.

So we jumped on a plane and braved a border crossing and left our little world and cave behind. For the most part, it was a good trip. We did a lot of walking - a huge deal for me, given that I am still recovering from the c-section. We dined out and drank wine. Saw friends and family and shopped. 

Shopping is a depressing activity for me at the moment. I have this body that is almost back to where it was, but not quite and nothing to show for those nine months of stretching and popping, my war wounds and poochy gut. So what I see in the mirror is a miserable, out of shape woman and I pity myself. I am disgusted in myself that I am filled with self-pity in moments like that. That I allow myself to further feed that grief with another reason as to why my life totally sucks, but I cannot help it.

Coming home was like waiting to exhale. It was relieving. There is something to be said about the comfort of your own home and whilst I had some happy moments in Melbourne, I was so glad to be home. To be back in the cave.