My sister’s mad at me and I’m not sure why. I guess its because I’m not doing enough, but I don’t know what to do. And some days I’m so overwhelmed with sadness and anger I have to wrench myself out of bed, leaving barely enough time to drink coffee and dress before I have to leave for work. And when I get home from work, and running errands, and make some dinner I’m too tired in my head to do anything more than watch something absolutely inane on t.v.
And when I’m at work, I’m not doing enough there either. I feel horribly guilty spending work time on personal business, faxing the caterer, calling the bank, the lawyer, lawyers, faxing the accountant, the insurance company, companies. And when Anne asks me if have any hours to deduct from my PTO, I should say, “Oh take three hours off for the time I spent talking to Merrill Lynch, and RSVP caterers, and the emails I sent, and the obituary I wrote.” But I say nothing, knowing that between the time I already spent back east, which was Not. Good. Enough. and the upcoming week in July for the funeral, which is also Not. Good. Enough. I am actually 40 hours in the hole on my “vacation” time. And the knot in my stomach gets tighter and my breath gets a little more shallow and my lip juts out and my throat closes and the tears start to slip out of the corners of my eyes and run down the sides of my face. Sometimes if I tilt my head back I can stop them, but sometimes all I can do is take off my glasses and press the palms of my hands to my eye sockets and hope for the best.
So yeah. It sucks, it’s not fair that my sister is in DC dealing with a condo full of crap and I can’t help her, and I can’t be whatever she needs me to be, and it’s not fair that I’m spending my current and future vacation NOT traveling to Alaska, NOR sunning at a villa in Mexico or Greece, but instead I’ll be hauling bags of paper in and out of a condo in DC and attending a funeral.
I’m so tired of feeling Not. Good. Enough. as if every small step forward I make is not covering enough ground, as if the tears I cry are not wet enough, the sobs are not loud enough, I’m not upset enough, concerned enough, caring enough, supportive enough. I have to take care of myself too, you know. I have to earn a living and pay my rent and keep up with my writing, otherwise I will not survive and will Never. Be. Good. Enough.