And honestly, I haven’t felt like doing much of anything at all.

When Preston was sick, I used up every single second. When he was asleep or on treatment, I would sew like crazy. I’d stay up too late to finish up a project and run in to show it off to P.

Monday nights, I always went to tap class. Such a joyful medium!

Sitting in bed in his last months, I almost always had a crochet project handy.

When he died, I found solace in getting my thoughts out here. Therapy as much as a hobby and way to stay connected.

I’ve always been a hobby collector. Basically, I decide I want to learn how to do something, so I just do it. Stained glass. Quilting. Embroidery. Amigarumi. Bouzouki. I’m always busy.

But now, I just don’t have the brain space for it. It’s not that I want to do a different hobby, it’s that I don’t want to do any hobby.

I tried to make a dress last week. Let’s just say it isn’t my finest work and will be just fine when I cut it all up and turn it into cotton rags.

I’m finding that in my grief, things just aren’t quite as fun as they used to be.

And what felt like lots of extra space and the release of relief immediately following Preston’s death has been replaced with big sad. It has filled up the space in my brain and in my heart and in my day. It fills in all of the gaps that aren’t taken up by work and parenting and eating and chores.

It really takes up the space at night.

My therapist sent me this image of a grief journey:

In the early days, (I guess I’m still in the “early days”, but time is a construct, and it’s all relative) I was bouncing around a lot. If you’ve been reading all along, you probably felt that.

But right now, I’m stuck in the sads and it irritates me. I am not comfortable in the sads. I find crying to be incredibly irritating. I want to feel more like myself and less like sad myself. She is annoying. She makes lots of mistakes. She whines about being lonely. She does not have patience. She orders hundreds of dollars worth of pictures to hang up in her house. She doesn’t even like romance novels.

The nerve.

I got a new tattoo on Friday. The last day Preston was in hospice, one of my favorite artists posted a “wannado” with a compass rose and some flowers. Just the week before, Preston had told me how much he loved the stained glass compass rose I once made him. (He said in particular that he was very impressed that it was so precise because – AND I QUOTE – “We all know that’s not your mother’s strong suit.”)

So anyway, the design was just right.

I paid my deposit that night, set the appointment for June 9, and P had passed 12 hours later.

I had my appointment and it didn’t start out great. I thought it was supposed to have color, but she didn’t and changing your plan on the artist last minute is like next-level bad form.

“I’d really just like a little color in the compass rose…” I said very meekly, heart racing.

Of course, she was a total professional, and was super lovely when I told her the deal. (Also, I sit like a fucking badass because WHAT IS PAIN so we finished in plenty of time) The tattoo is perfect.

All that to say, when it comes to grief, it’s not as simple as picking a direction and heading there. The compass isn’t always pointing North. It is not a constant. It’s a lot more like those super cheap ones you get at souvenir shops at the aquarium.

But you sort of have to follow it anyways. Let it take you on a journey. And when you’re stuck in the swamps of sadness, you’ve just got to hope that you’ll go the way of Atreyu instead of Artax. That you’ll keep right on heading to the Great Valley. That you’ll help Thomas J find his glasses.

OH MY GOD YOU GUYS THE 90s MESSED US UP SO BAD.

Ok, long, rambling story short.

Grief blows. I’m mostly OK. I know that someday, things will be fun again, but they’re not right now. It is what it is.