kvetching up

Entry 1 If you are a friend or family member, you likely know I have dug in. Deep. This sun is helping, as will daylight savings time, I expect. Seasonal Affective Disorder is real. I also think living in this house, with all the painful memories, and sleeping inches from where Jenny died, both make depression more likely. Not that there aren't a lot of wonderful memories here. Okay, not so many. Leiney essentially moved out three weeks after Jenny died, for the most part, and completely a few months later. Abby was here longer, but spent much of her time teenagering and then went off to college. We had nice times here, when she was present.  Which brings me to thinking of moving . Today, I met with a recruiter from PGE-Portland General Electric, they are looking for someone with extensive experience, to take the deputy role, and then to likely transition into the Director role. A ratepayer funded entity--the pay is fabulous and the work sounds interesting. The recruiter and I clic...

I walked miles every day for months. My route only vary by length, not route. I dropped weight as quickly as FKJ & Masego dropped Tadow . I can see the route in my mind's eye. Walking through Ravenna Park over the converted commuter bridge, past the beautiful and expensive houses that I will never live in. Crossing 25th at Kidd Valley and meandering a block before turning back down toward the Burke-Gilman as it skirts the old workhorse Safeway. Turning up the hill that abuts the graveyard where much of my family lies in repose. I'd turn up, still following the cemetary border and cross 35th and walk back through there, passing the Met Market before heading north and heading north. Sometimes I would go as far as Nathan Hale, but rarely. Sometimes I'd stop at the QFC and get something to drink, but not often. Always, I would be trying to make sense of what was going on in my life, with Jenny. Searching for logic about her living, her suffering, her frame of mind. And losi...

Today I was struck by the following: For several years before Jenny was diagnosed, while we were living in Ravenna, she would come home and sit in her car for long periods of time, really long periods of time. I found it odd. Generally, we weren't bickering, so I couldn't figure it out. Oftentimes, in retrospect, she was on the phone. One can only presume with whom she was talking to the majority of the time.  ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------- I hate myself more than I should. I do. Perhaps hate isn't the right word, but it sounds good enough. People are always kind when you are leaving a job, and as I am saying my goodbyes, it has come to my attention that people do respect me and the work I do. That I am surprised probably means I need to find a better therapist--clearly I didn't work through this issue enough. I have my own ego that tells me I am performing well, but the kind words spoken by union and management alike ...

I'd prefer Taco Tuesday to tandem therapy any day. This therapy sucked . We spoke openly about Jenny dying, that she will die sooner rather than later.  We talked about it for half an hour. I was sad, she was sad. It was somber. Bonding even. Then it changed. Let me be clear.  It's been a year and some change. I have dealt with my feelings around Jenny's long running affair--the one she refused to stop--and made it clear that the purpose of therapy was not to fix this ramshackle jalopy we call a marriage, but to allow us to live together while she is sick. Not being the one with pancreatic cancer, I meant we wouldn't deal with it for the rest of her life. Fine.  I also made clear, while I would be able to do this, I would not countenance Sheila Capestany or Jennifer Murray at our home. Over time, I loosened up a bit about Jennifer. She would, when we lived in Ravenna, go hang out in the back yard with Jenny. I got some of my best information on the affair eavesdropping ...