Grief & Christmas Thoughts

The grief-stricken mind thinks the craziest thoughts…

As I look in the dryer for a clean pair of underwear and only see one left, well, it looks like I’ll be buying myself new underwear this Christmas instead of my mom.

Honey, what size do you wear this year?

Oh, I’d say an 8. I could maybe get away with a size 7, but I like them baggy.¬†

I’ll be the only person to buy myself new underthings from now on and this strikes me as pathetically, heartbreakingly hilarious.

I show my brother a photo of our tree this year.


It’s like a tree-shrine, he says.

Yes, I agree with him. It feels right to us, the kid and I couldn’t seem to manage more than this.

My brother cocks his eyebrow and takes a swig of his beer.

We’re all discussing what to eat on Christmas. Nobody wants to do the traditional meal of ham, potato salad and my mom’s sweet potatoes this year.

Well, she’s not here to make them, obviously. The meal doesn’t add up anymore. It just doesn’t work.

Appetizers! Yes, I say, how about that? We all bring an appetizer to share.

Everyone agrees. It’s a far cry from eating ham, that’s for sure.

It’s a holly, jolly appetizer Christmas.

I don’t feel much like celebrating this holiday and here it is, right under our nose already. All there is now is to get the fuck through it and try not to cry too much.


I keep an hourly vigil on the clock. Tick away, Mr. Clock. Let’s do this shit already so that I can go back to my every day normal grief.

My phone no longer rings at 8 am every morning and after 7 months, I’m sort of getting used to it. But I know that tomorrow morning will be the worst, maybe even as bad as having no birthday call back in August.

Everyone tells me that the 1st of everything is the worst and so, like the little squirrel who starts gathering nuts for the winter, I have been preparing myself for this surreal Christmas.

Yet nothing that I’ve done is helping, I feel like an empty pitcher of beer, I feel like the last bits of foam resting on the bottom.

I received a letter last night, two days before Christmas. It’s from my condo association wanting me to pay $389.32 in legal fees.

They knew about it way back in March of this year when they finally took the lien off of my house.

They are charging me for it, of course. But the timing is just like them, big bullies that they are and one of the main reasons why I am selling the place.

Merry Christmas. Ho ho ho, screw you Mer.

I reach for my phone to call my mom, then my hand stops mid-air.

This happens rather often, usually when something totally awful (or less often, something great) happens to me.

I get a sickening lump in my throat with the understanding that NOBODY ELSE IN THIS GIANT WORLD GIVES A FUCK.

My mom always gave a fuck, you see. Even if she couldn’t help me, at least she gave a fuck.

I shut the house down and went to bed at 6:30 pm. I didn’t wake up until this morning and now it’s Christmas Eve day.

I knew that this time in my life would arrive one day, I just didn’t think it would be so soon.

I know, that sentence doesn’t make a lick of sense, does it??

I fear that nothing will ever feel right again in my world. Being strong, well, if I wasn’t strong, I wouldn’t even be here writing all of these words.

A writer writes, not for other people, but for themselves.

My mom told me a few times that God gave me a talent, a gift and that she thought I was a good writer. Her opinion mattered more to me than anyone else’s.

That I could make her proud of me, even though I never went to college, I had shitty taste in men, major mental illnesses and that I ended up disabled by the age of 37.

But she told me that God gave me a gift.

Now He has her with Him this Christmas.

And I know that she was the biggest gift that I’ve ever had.

Christmas Jello


Despite my best efforts, I had an epic meltdown last night.

The thing that triggered it was that my daughter lost her Cleveland State graduation tickets. Drama and chaos ensued as we both tore through the house, looking in places that seemed ridiculous (silverware drawer) for them.

(She’s graduating on Sunday with a bachelor’s degree in Psychology and of course, I’m so proud of her.)

“You didn’t accidentally throw them away, did you?” she asked me, desperation and accusation in her voice.

Oh, the way children can break their mother’s hearts.

“Not that I am aware of,” I replied, trying to keep my hurt from showing.

Well, we didn’t find them.

It was too late for her to contact the college to see about getting replacement tickets, although she did try, all she got was a recorded message saying that the office was closed.

I reasoned that they would understand and give her more (she only needs 7) but she freaked out and said that they wouldn’t grant her any. Everyone was going to be mad at her and she was such a basket-case over the entire ordeal that I became quietly angry and absolutely speechless.

I went out onto the patio. In the freezing, bitter cold darkness, I took a few deep inhales of the marijuana that I splurged on for the holidays and then exhaled slowly, watching the smoke go higher as the wind took it away.

Fuck it. Fuck this.

I was angry, bereft, depressed and wishing that I could disappear up into the clouds with the plumes myself.

Once I came back inside, I started crying so hard that I thought my body would dehydrate. I was so scared, I was am so lost. I wanted to talk to somebody, but it was after 10 PM and I didn’t want to bother anyone with my intense grief and feelings of despair.

How can I continue to live without her? How will I fulfill the promise that I made to my mom before they wheeled her away for that last pointless surgery?

These thoughts turned my blood as cold as the ice that has formed in the outside water bowl for my dogs.

There will be an extra unused ticket for my daughter’s graduation.

There will be no present under the tree that says “mom” on the tag.

There will be an empty seat at the dinner table.

If one more person tells me that she’s in heaven now with God, I’m going to scream.

Everything feels different now and nothing will ever be the same again without our matriarch leading the way, with her intense joy of having us all together on Christmas Day. My mother loved Christmas and now that she’s dead, I have no desire to buy gifts or make Christmas jello-like she always asked me to do.

Red and green squares, topped with Cool Whip. Sugar-free due to being diabetics and the fact that nobody else ate it but the two of us.

The numbness that comes after death to protect us from the shock is hanging out above the treetops where my marijuana smoke still lingers, too high for me to reach and put on like a safety cloak.

The office has more tickets for my daughter to pick up after work today, so I won’t have to fight and argue my way inside like I was planning to do. I had nothing left to lose and no lack of ticket would’ve kept me from watching her graduate.

I need to be there to take photos and a video. I need to represent my deceased mother, who wanted so badly to watch her first grandchild achieve something so monumental.

Nobody seems to understand how I am feeling right now and I crave solitude so badly that I can taste it like the Christmas jello from last year, sweet on my tongue, yet this year, bitter in my soul.

Grief Sundae

Grab a bag of confetti you guys, for tomorrow is the first appointment with my new therapist!!

Um, yeah. Which I’ve been waiting for since fucking July when I decided gee whiz, maybe I should go talk to someone because my mom just died rather traumatically, my ex-husband keeps poisoning me from afar, not to mention that I already have an ass load of mental health problems to take into consideration.

So let’s make her wait ON HER OWN for a few months and you know, I can always go to the ER in case of an emergency.

So they can lock me away in the funny-farm and I can weave baskets for everyone this Christmas!!


Wishing you a happy holiday season from Nutberry Farm!

Since I now compare every mental state that I’m in with how I was back in the spring/summer of 2015, at least I am ME.

(Anyone who suffers from mental health issues will understand what I mean.)

I am (mostly) one with reality, although it’s touch and go sometimes when my anxiety is high.

I don’t wish for death constantly, I just sometimes wish that I wasn’t here to begin with.

I don’t dream that monsters are trying to kill me and I don’t spend hours obsessing about one thing or another.

However, I am always tired, I want to sleep a lot, I procrastinate like crazy and I MISS MY MOM.

I keep saying that to myself…like a mantra.

So is that like an obsession or a compulsion?

I haven’t really gotten angry yet about what happened to my mom. I keep waiting for that to boil over. Fun stuff.

It’s just the truth and I don’t wanna. (Tantrum time.)


I don’t wanna celebrate the holidays without my mom. No music, no Santa, no trees, no gifts. Just screw it all this year.

My daughter is graduating from college December 15th and my mom should be there!


I promised to keep living my life and to fight the good fight. But there are days when I just want to stay in my safe, cozy bed and become one with that empty hole in my heart.

I am struggling with everything that I need to do right now. The pain in my legs and lower back is constant and I hate the bitter coldness of Ohio in wintertime. Fibro continues to be my foe and I wish it would GO THE FUCK AWAY.

Oh yeah, I am putting my condo up for sale. (More on that later and the thing that made me finally decide to do it.)

That might be adding to my stressed out, grief sundae right now, but knowing how I LOVE to put shit off, I need to follow through or else I will pitch the entire endeavor in the trashcan and then throw a Molotov cocktail in behind it.

No, it needs to be done. As difficult as it might be, it’s an integral part of ending the asshat era and moving on.