I rolled over and looked at the clock.
It was two.
In the afternoon.
I raised my hand to my eyes to block out the sunlight and rolled back over to my other side. I wanted more than anything to continue sleeping. I was just so, so tired. But I had to get up.
This day, I had to get up.
It had been five days since I’d returned to NYC from California. Five days of pulling myself out of bed at a reasonable hour, insisting to myself that I needed to get shit done: make calls in regards to my Mom’s affairs, her house, return messages from her friends, continue my job search in California, pack for the move, organize my own affairs.
Etc. Etc. Etc.
Every morning I’d stumble to the computer and swear I’d make my way through my ever-expanding list of things to do. And every day, instead, I’d go on Facebook or PerezHilton.com or LowCarbFriends.com or whatever and spend hours, literally hours, tuning out, scrolling through bits of unimportant information and not getting anything done. At around 11am I’d give up and go back to bed. And then I’d sleep the rest of the day away.
I began to learn that I hated daytime. Everyone was telling me to get out, see my friends, finish my NYC Bucketlist but I just couldn’t. The daylight seemed to intense for me, too bright, too harsh. I didn’t want to leave my apartment. I didn’t want to see people living their lives, being happy, acting normal.
I didn’t want to see my friends either. This was because I didn’t want to talk about my Mom’s passing, but I also did not have the tolerance to discuss anything else. If one of my friends had vented to me about something, I would have thought, “Oh what the fuck, you’re having trouble at work?? Jesus Christ. My Mother just DIED.” Or if they instead told me about something wonderful in their lives, I would have thought, “Oh. Isn’t that great for you? So glad all is going well for you. My Mother just DIED.”
No one was going to really win there. So I kept to myself.
Eventually, my schedule became that I’d sleep all day, and then in the evening, when it was quiet and dark, I’d tell myself I needed to get up and pack. But packing for me now was heartbreaking. See, this was supposed to be a fun time in my life. Packing my boxes, organizing my things and all along – sending pictures to my Mom, “Look at The Cat, she’s in a box!” “Look, I still have that old creamer shaped like a cow. I’m bringing it back!!” This was all so she could join in my excitement for the move. My Boyfriend, My Mom, Me and The Cat. We were to have many adventures together.
But instead of packing, I’d put one or two things in a box and then look around my studio and become incredibly weak and overwhelmed. My muscles would literally give up. I’d grab my Kindle and slowly creep to the couch. Then I’d read all night.
I’d call My Boyfriend and wail to him, “I’m supposed to be going through all my files and everything so I don’t bring all this crap to California but I can’t do it! I can’t do it!”
And he’d say, “It’s okay, Tracey.”
“I can’t focus enough to figure out what to bring and what not to bring! Do I want the fondue pot in California?? I DON’T KNOW.”
“Okay,” he’d say. “Just do the things that can only be done in New York. You can do your Mom’s stuff, the house, your job search, go through files – all of that can be done here so don’t worry about it now. I’ll be there in a week and together we can finish everything else up. Even if you get NOTHING done beforehand, I promise you with the two of us, we’ll get it all done. Just rest as much as you can and say goodbye to your friends. Hang in there, baby.”
And I’d thank him and hang up. Then I’d go lie on the bed on my side and The Cat would do this thing where she’d come up behind me, sit up on her hind legs and flop over my neck. Then she’d rest her head on my face lightly and lick my cheek until I calmed down.
She’d never done this before.
The snooze button went off again. Gah. Now it was 2:25pm. I slammed my hand on the clock. I really, really had to get up now.
Because see, it was my Going-Away Party.