Want to hear about something sad? Other than pelicans covered with crude oil or yesterday's government-sanctioned execution by firing squad in Utah, I mean? Those are sad in a way that makes a person either break down and sob from grief, or angrily clench one's fists, tears welling during a tantrum of enraged disbelief.
No, this kind of sad is different. It's a sadness people don't want to hear about. It's a sadness I don't much want to talk about, but it's there. It is the sadness of fleeting despair.
It's official: I am a sook...not the female crab, thank goodness, but a cry baby. All week, I have wept at least once daily. We're not talking a careless wipe of the eye to whisk away the annoying presence of moisture. These are big tears, usually induced by a sudden, breath-snatching fit of crying that would make Orpheus pack up his lute and go home.
I'm not proud of this. Heck, I know it's okay to cry, but really. Enough is enough.
So what is it? Well, it's a lot of things, I think.
Most immediately, it is the gripping loneliness that took hold of me Tuesday morning, when I awoke to realize that Mark's brief visit to Sydney was over. He was indeed gone, and my fate was consigned to what seems like months of agonizing solitude without him or Zane by my side.
It is also the silence of this house as I sit here and work day to day, my only audible companions the sound of NPR personalities streaming over the computer, or the weirdly comforting gurgles made by our critters as they snore during their daytime slumbers.
Okay, time for some happy news! Starting Sunday, I will have Zane back in the house for about a week and half cumulatively. He is an amazing young person whose company I have not had the exclusive
pleasure of being around for months. I simply cannot wait to reconnect.
I plan to take some time off work, and I am greatly looking forward to our time together before he, too, returns to the US for the next 10 months. As young people do when adolescence approaches, he is changing rapidly. I have no doubt the next year will bring about remarkable progress for him, just as the past year has.
As I have described already, the year gone by has been amazing, and maybe it is the year's passing that I lament. Oh, it was hard at times, but it also proved resplendent. I am a transformed person in some ways. My attitude is stronger, my convictions shaken but fiercely resilient, my love for family renewed with a vigor that I never expected, and my affection for the men in the household soaring at a dizzying altitude. Deep down, however, I know I am still Sandy. I doubt I can change all that much, especially at this age, but I think that I can improve. And I hope that all those people who have made me who I am, be they friends, family or colleagues, understand that.
My therapist in Arizona would tell me not to worry. To process all this like I would knead bread dough. To "work it, girl!" And perhaps that's exactly what I should do. Make bread. And then share a slice or two over a glass of wine with the friends and family that I know are here in Sydney, waiting for me to call. Waiting for me to get over my big, bad, predictable self.
So bear with me folks. My sook days will draw to an end. I'll emerge from this with my usual embarrassed shrug. And those close to me will be somewhat annoyed, wondering if I am again denying them access to my feelings. But no one will say anything. No one has to. They know me, and they know that this big sook is okay.