The impatience of grief

I find myself struggling with impatience these days. My children won't listen. My friends that do volunteer work have their own agendas and aren't available to do the projects I think are important. My husband, bless his heart, is a wonderful husband...but he can't read my mind (like I think he should).

And so I try to stay busy. Project after project after project. No time to sit and listen to my third-grader read aloud for 15 minutes a day. No time to do housework. No time to cook or bake. No time to watch tv. No time to think. Thinking is forbidden. Thinking takes me to that place where the might-have-beens grab hold of me and shake me until I want to vomit.

And so I organize projects for "the greater good." Nothing worth anything to me or my family. As if providing the benefit to someone/something else will somehow buy me favor somewhere. As if I can still make a bargain.

For what? I honestly don't know. I'm too tired, too impatient, too angry.

I was having people to the house today and was in a hurry to clean. I squeezed the dead baby brick onto a shelf where it is just stored...not displayed...not cherished. Shoved on a shelf like a tattered paperback you don't care much about. The thing is...I do care. I want to hurl the f***ing thing through the window. I hate it. It's just another reminder and I hate it.

My glider rocking chair broke. I guess since I won't need it to rock a brick to sleep that that is just perfect timing.

And no amount of fundraising will fix any of it. Nothing fixes it. Nothing makes it better. Not crying. Not stuffing 600 trick or treat bags. Not schmoozing with sponsors.

But at least someone benefits from my impatience.