You Know The Day Destroys The Night/Night Divides The Day

 Entry 1    5:09 p.m. October 30, 2021

Dealing with racism, it's a daily thing.  My therapist often wants to discuss race with me, ancillary to therapy. I may make a statement in passing, and she wants to challenge it on empirical, not therapeutic grounds. I don't ever bring race up as a topic for discussion. She doesn't get it, and frankly, I don't want to work in the salt mines relying on her clouded miner's light to shine  on something that she doesn't understand. I won't engage in such discussions with my therapist, who I adore, but who thinks she can debate me despite my actual expertise in the area, Having been taught by and then working as a teaching fellow in in  critical race theory for the founder of the discipline, I have some small knowledge of the field. Today, my therapist tried to engage in and then shut down such a discussion, when I kept knocking down her obtuse and ill-informed (and frankly, cliché and uninteresting) opinion that it is somehow easier today for people of color, specifically black people, in employment, especially at high levels. I roasted her like a cheese soufflé appetizer in a greasy Viking range. Then, we returned to our regularly scheduled therapy session, an area where her expertise is otherwise unparalleled.

Entry 2.   9:35 p.m.

Today's session was initially focused on, quell surprise, death and dying. Jenny is sleeping a lot more, is weaker, cranky, and as sad as sad can be. It's a lot, a whole lot.  Not simply for her, but for me as well. I am exhausted.

Entry 3, November 1, 10:52 a.m.

We talked about my generalized fear of survivability after the loss. It's a thing I have, this fear, and I understand it isn't rational. But, there it is. Dr. F pointed out that my fear is really a fear of abandonment, which I can vouchsafe. It's my oldest fear, one I can remember feeling starkly when I was 6 or 7 when at the family property on Camano Island. It was summer, and we would all go and stay in the Roadhouse, the only surviving building beside the boathouse, of the Camano Island Resort my Uncle Ted and Aunt Dorothy owned. We went each summer. Often more than once.  My uncle would bring his family,  along with his friend Darryl and Ralph. These three could drink. A lot. As could my mom. My mother had complained to me that she didn't want to be all around the drinking, so I thought she wasn't going to drink. But, Sunday afternoon, as the Jerry Lewis Labor Day Telethon came on, all the adults left to go to Stanwood to drink. I freaked out. I didn't understand. I lost my shit. I couldn't communicate what was wrong, just that I was furious. I never had tantrums, was always complimented by teachers and others about what a good kid I was. But, I turned into a tyro as soon as the cars departed. I was so upset, that I ran to the fridge, pulled out a Rainier Tall Boy and ran out to our beach and threw it as hard as I could into the water. Yeah, I still don't like beer today.

So, I understand that this reaction as driven by my fear that my mother would abandon me. It wasn't the only time, but I won't cite chapter and verse.

So, I have this irrational fear. I get it. For many years, whenever Jenny left town, I didn't sleep. That hasn't been true since I discovered her adultery. I sleep easily. I discuss this with my therapist. I tell her that Jenny's enunciated biggest fear is that I can't make it without her. My therapist asked me who this narrative serves, she clearly not believing it. I start to think about it. It turns out that this is one of those things that has served Jenny in her view of me for years.. She complains that I am not handy--and well shit I am not. But I am not disabled. So, she always, without exception, expresses surprise when I do things like install outdoor lights and the security system, or manage to do other things she thinks I can't do. Even after I do them the narrative persists or snaps back, this idea I am incapable of doing such things. 

So, to be clear, I have believed this narrative, despite its lack of truth. I did manage to move to California, rent an apartment, live alone for a year, then find the home on the cul-de-sac with a pool and hot tub and within walking distance from school as she wanted. She left with the kids again, after a year, and again I managed to find an apartment, and provide for my feed and caring without another person holding my hand. 

And, I am rather running the household now for the most part.  I got up at an ungodly hour this morning and took Willow to the vet for an appt. I made back in June for her to be spayed chipped today. So, in essence, the narrative is simply not true.  

This was a big moment for me to get this through my head again, for the second time in a year. I feel like the backsliding I think I have fallen into is reversing gears, and for that I am grateful and for once optimistic.

Entry 4    11:33 a.m.

Per my research I have discovered that very few people are able to tolerate Folfox, the chemotherapy Jenny is currently receiving, at full dose if at all. 

This scares me: