Last month I wrote a post about a dream I had where my mother (long deceased after a short and troubled life) visited me for tea. That post was the culmination of a long stretch of days (weeks, really) fraught with deepening sadness and mostly sleepless nights that were punctuated by haunting dreams. That post was Freshly Pressed, and after replying to comments and visiting the blogs of old and new followers and other passersby, I vanished from the blogosphere for a while.
But life went on. Each morning, when I hoisted a 90 pound book bag into my vehicle for the trek to the educational emporium which employs me – this guy would be staring at me…
But life went on. In an epic battle – serotonin wrestled with norepinephrine about whose job it was to cheer me up, and after coming to the conclusion that joy was highly overrated – both neurotransmitters waved sayonara and abandoned ship, leaving me with a desire to punch everyone (including sweet little old ladies) in the throat; sleeping about 3 hours a night, and wishing my mom would come back and take me with her. (PLEASE NOTE: I am okay, really).
But life went on. I started feeling a little better, sleeping became my new hobby, and writing seemed like a vague memory of something I used to enjoy. My neurons stopped twitching. I began to see hope and joy in simple things, and felt like I was making a slow, if somewhat wobbly, recovery. Then I checked the mail. I’d received an invitation.
To a funeral home.
Related Post: Reports of My Death are Greatly Exaggerated (Part 1)