Obligatory New Year's Post.

It's been a rough holiday season. I refuse to apologize for not posting (or rather, for not finishing a post to put up). And I know it's sloppy of me to link someone else's article instead of writing my own. I get that.  But I just happened to remember to check this site, and read this post, and it's everything I espouse every freaking year. And he says it so well.

So enjoy. And have an amazing New Year.

Wishes

I wish I hadn't gone to see you, on that last day. I wish my last sight of you hadn't been as hopeless as it was. I wish I could better remember how you looked before we knew you were sick.

I wish I hadn't been so selfish. I wish I had known--really known-- that each and every moment I had with you was precious, was a gift. I wish I had remembered that for the last five years, and not the last five hours.

I wish I knew what your favorite song was. I wish I could sing myself to sleep with it.

I wish you hadn't thought I was my mother, or my aunt, or your sister. I wish you hadn't been going crazy.

I wish you would come back and tell me to quit moping. I wish you would pat my hand again, settle your hands (which were turning slowly into birds, all flutters and long bones and light touches) on my thin shoulders and kiss my cheek. I wish I had told you about how my day went more often. I wish I could tell you I loved you, just once more.

I wish I could stop listening to Death Cab for Cutie songs. They are starting to sound the same.

I wish I could stop listening to slam poetry. It seems like all my favorites make me cry when I listen.

I wish it had been more than just three days. I wish people weren't still trying to comfort me. I wish I could just shut them all out, curl up in a ball in my room wearing one of your sweatshirts, under your blankets, on sheets that are starting to smell like you because mom is using the rest of your laundry detergent. I wish you had given me your bracelet before you moved. I wish I had been strong enough to tell you to move before you started falling--maybe then I would have been more used to you staying in a strange new bed, not wanting to get up and go the way we used to.

I wish I could stop crying whenever someone mentions you. I wish I didn't have to go to work today. I wish this didn't hurt bad enough to make me keep writing about it.

I almost wish I could stop thinking about you. Almost.

Coping Mechanisms: Avoidance

Wake up.

Turn on coffee pot.

Boot up computer. Check email. Check Facebook. Check every web comic I've ever been interested in, and all of their suggested links.

Get coffee. Drink coffee. Contemplate eating something; internal deliberation will result in skipping meal entirely.  Finish coffee.

Take shower. Dry off. Notice that the bathroom needs a good scrub; begin doing so. Fight cleaning in severe humidity. Decide to resume cleaning when bathroom temperature has matched that of the rest of the house.

Enter closet. Deliberate over wardrobe. Intend not to wear black. Rummage through clothing. Rummage.  Rummage. Select ironic black shirt. Dress. Finish daily hygiene regimen.

Return to computer. Check Facebook. Check email. Update Goodreads account.

Work on PowerPoint outline to be used in memorial service for no more than 10 minutes. Follow with 30 minute bout of tears, no less than 12 tissues, and three squares of chocolate. Return to Facebook. Shortly thereafter, purge stomach of contents in bathroom trash can.

Retire to living room couch. Curl up under blanket and attempt to sleep. Procure long-time favorite movie. Play film. Repeat attempts at sleep.

Rise with intent to be somewhat productive. Wander through house looking for something to do. Begin sweeping floors. When finished sweeping bedroom, rearrange bedroom. When finished rearranging, put everything back where it was. Sweep bedroom again.

Lay out clothes for following day. Lay out clothes for remainder of week. Start laundry. Forget about laundry. Clean 2 pairs of sneakers. Polish boots. Reorganize contents of dresser.

Return to computer. Check Facebook. Rediscover mindless game; level up twice. Play different, equally mindless game. Check email.

Return to couch. Attempt sleep. Repeat. When attempts for sleep again prove futile, substitute 'sleep' for 'read.'

Get up.  Check Facebook. Clean and organize desk. Check Facebook. Check clock. Realize that, despite lack of desire for sleep, necessity of maintaining normal sleep cycle.

Complete nightly hygiene regimen. Put on pajamas. Get into bed. Check voicemail. Return missed call from best friend. Cry while relaying personal tragedy. Be comforted.

Sleep.