The day after Thanksgiving, my dog, Gizmo, and I laid in bed until five p.m. before finally catching each other's eye, disgusted with ourselves. Perhaps I should have taken the hint when my cat looked down at my lack of grooming, and took the task on himself, as if to say, "If you're not going to do anything about this, I guess I'll give it a shot- but I'm no miracle worker, lady." You have to love him for trying.
I had been awake off and on throughout the day, you understand. But depression had settled further onto my limbs while I slept as if someone had covered my sleeping form with a blanket of bricks. Move? Why? All I wanted was Cory, and she wasn't here.
The last few days I had good intentions- maybe I'll take Gizmo for a walk, maybe I'll go for Chinese, maybe I'll make beef stew- but in the end, my bed beckoned and was not to be denied. So there I laid in a place that was soft and warm- really the only comfort available. Thoughts swirled- both good memories and reluctant trips down It's All Your Fault lane.
I know I professed to have changed my thinking on the fault business when I returned from Italy. That was a valiant effort, but didn't last. The brain is pattern seeking, right? It seems I will relentlessly look for a reason and the person to blame, even to my own detriment. Over the last couple days I've blamed everyone from the driver to The Pioneer Woman who cooks on Food Network before circling back to myself.
The Pioneer Woman, you ask dubiously. Yes. For a brief moment in time, I blamed her just because she inspired the great spring/summer stock up of 2012. She did a show on her pantry/freezer, and when I set my eyes upon all the duplicate spices, canned goods, dried goods, and frozen items, my anxiety piped up excitedly, "Oh my God, we've simply got to do that! It would make me feel so good."
Never mind the fact that this woman has much more income than I do. I was determined to stock up, preventing last minute trips to the store, and saving money in the process. As always, I went slightly overboard, not only stocking up on food, but also household cleaners, paper goods, and pet food. It was to the point that Tim got into the act, planning a remodel of the spare room downstairs to turn it into a stockroom of sorts. Sadly, this, as all his other projects born in the fever of hypomania, never quite came to fruitation.
Once the progam year ended at work and unemployment pay began, I found it a little more difficult to keep up on my overdone and endless stocking. There just wasn't the funds to support it. I went back to getting only what I needed at the moment, paying whatever price was being asked. Somewhere, along the way, the chili powder was overlooked...and well, you know the rest.
How does this make The Pioneer Woman responsible? It obviously doesn't. She encouraged limited trips to the store and buying things on sale, not sending your daughter out to get hit by an SUV. Last night, as I lay in bed, medicated but unable to sleep, putting one hand over my face as if I could hold back the images of Cory laid out on the road, knocked out of her shoes, and part of her hair trapped in a stranger's windshield, I entered a truly evil thought pattern.
I started thinking that Cory and I always let each other know when we ran out of something. She was in on the stock up, you see. Jacob was not old enough to cook without supervision. So who did that leave?
Shit. That day when I called out, annoyed, that I would need to go to the store, and who used all the chili powder without saying anything, Cory said, "Probably Dad. You know he makes all kinds of weird stuff to take to work."
Yes, he does- strange rice concoctions with a cube bouillon base and smattered with some spice over the top to make him feel fancy. Had he used the last of the chili powder and not told anyone? He was the prime suspect when all the milk was gone, and quite fond of putting an empty box of cereal back on top of the fridge. One day the family was going to approach him as a lynch mob, and be done with his excuses.
I remember deciding that in addition to my mom not having to see Cory laying on the road before she was covered, the only good thing was that Tim had not been the one to send her to the store. I had spent a week in Florida a couple months before, and to distract Cory from missing me and give her a role in helping run the household, Tim had sent her to Family Fare every day, pretending he had forgotten some small but crucial item. Cory did it happily, and felt proud to be helping. I used to imagine if this had happened on one of those trips, what would my feelings towards Tim be? I would get ten seconds into this imaginary scenario and have to mentally turn away, not wanting to see myself in such an ugly light.
So last night, I pondered on who forgot to say we were out of chili powder and began to hate my husband until I fell asleep.
When I woke up this morning, I realized I was being ridiculous. It is unbelievable what unbearable pain can breed. I shook my head, bemused at how I had latched onto something so nonsensical.
It was obvious whose fault it was. Who did the grocery shopping, Nick?
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