42 is not the meaning of life...
I woke up again today, although why I am not sure.
It began with the death in 2006 of my biological grandmother, a nasty piece of work who did her utmost not to acknowledge my existence. Then Rebecca, a beacon of hope to many, who made it to 30 before the cure for leukaemia killed her. Then biological grandfather, not nasty but certainly in denial about who I was. Then my angel in tabby colours, after 17 years of daily love and the most consistent source of love and affection in my life. Then my adoptive mother, in feb 2010. Much as she truly hurt me with her arctic behaviour, it was an awful death and I wouldn't wish it on anyone. Then my best friend, the glorious melissa, on my birthday in 2011, another cancer death, finally followed by adoptive father in January this year. And all that while doing a very stressful job in the public service, and completing a phd on my own in a city far away with hardly any support. Iadd a back injury and diabetes too, probably from all that stress.
So here are my questions. Most well meaning people say to dwell on the good memories of your family. Easier said than done. The golden rules in my family were 'Affection shall not be displayed', 'questions shall not be asked' and 'feelings shall be repressed'. I might be wealthy and well educated now, but Mother Teresa was right when she said that the greatest poverty was feeling unloved.
Just in case anyone was going to trot the furphy about adoptees being lucky...think about this. Do you feel lucky because your mother died when you were little? That is, in effect, what happens to babies 'given up' for adoption. Would you feel lucky and joyous at the thought of having to bury four parents? I rest my case.
Everything I thought would come to me in a post thesis life, everything post poned for the apparently greater good of achieving the pinnacle of academic success, seems pointless and empty. I can't bestir myself for much. Occasionally I leave the new house (yes, I did what they say not to, move house). But I couldn't bear to stay in the house of death. Now I a, still the same screwed up misery guts in much nicer and more convenient surroundings. I'm rich now , comparatively speaking, and can afford the therapy, except that my therapist has cancer and has stopped working, and now I have to through the exhausting process of finding someone new.
Which means I have to get out of my comfy bed, I suppose.
My sister and I have a non suicide pact, made before everyone started dying. Having tried it before, I know I am not capable of killing of myself. Instead I just wake up each morning vaguely disappointed that I didn't die in my sleep. Then the cat comes to say hello and ask for breakfast, which is just enough to get my feet to the floor. Saved by the cat, again...