The death of a house coat.

This housecoat may yet make like wood and become a part of my divorce bonfire - scheduled for late spring at my sister's farm.

This housecoat may yet make like wood and become  part of a divorce bonfire – scheduled for late spring at my sister’s farm.

I have spent the past two weeks trailing around my house like a ghost; a sickly ghost in a NyQuil commercial.  My pathetic state enhanced by the fact that my favourite wardrobe piece – the black polka dot house coat with the torn pocket – has lost its belt. I believe that the Pup is a likely culprit.

Rather than dig through the places that the Pup seems happy to hide things, (deep in the recesses of the couch, or in the basement in a dark corner that also stores boxes of memories that I know that I should purge – but have yet to find the energy) I gave up on the house coat altogether.  In its stead, I have been wrapping a few old and worn blankets around my shoulders (note to self: must purge linen closet as old and worn blankets have taken up a foothold there.)

I caught a glimpse of myself the other day in the mirror, while shuffling by the bathroom.  It would appear that I have taken a fashion fancy to a peasant woman in the middle ages.

This is how I am coping with a lingering sinus infection and cold virus, which has at times caused me to rage over how I am seemingly prone to every malady this winter season of sick has to offer.

I have also felt depleted of all creative energy.  Lately, I seem only able to take things in ( best-selling easy reads and reality television of the Housewives variety) and have nothing, at this point to offer, except further self-pity over my poorly functioning immune system.

The kids have all been sick too.  Happily, they managed to mostly complete their viral run before I contracted this beast of a cold.  Nature is kind.  I could not muster any further energy in their care right now.  Although, it seems like I may finally be turning a corner with this thing.  My box of tissues may indicate otherwise but I have dropped at least one of the blankets. Progress, dear friends.

The crying jags that have occurred over the past couple of weeks, in conjunction with this cold, have been rather unsettling.  My therapist asked me last week if I felt depressed.  I had replied that I didn’t.  And I don’t . This is something so very different from anything I have experienced before.  My therapist calls this, being discouraged or – to deprive of confidence, hope, or spirit.

So, what is causing this feeling of discouragement?

Right, yes, grief.  Oh, and the viral fog. And tax season. Ick.

I worry that I am saying the same thing over and over in this blog.  For those of you who are also experiencing divorce and separation, there may be a kinship in recognition over this process, which at times seems incredibly redundant.  If grief and loss are a cycle of acceptance, I seem to have my foot caught in the spokes of its wheel.

Like when I was eight years old and doubled on the back seat of an older girls banana bike.  I had jumped off when my foot got caught in the rear wheel – she wouldn’t stop her furious peddling- which left me hopping next to the bike while holding the seat and screaming in searing pain.  Her handsome older brother had carried me down the block and home to my mother.

I am not looking for someone’s handsome older brother (at this point) to carry me away from this moment, that I do believe is vital to my healing.  I suppose that I just need to know when I am continuing to cycle around rather than making any real progress.

Valentines Day is fast approaching.  The estranged one and I were sporadic in our attention to the day, and so it has never been very important to me.  I will pick up cards for my children, and a box of chocolate for each. I avoided doing this last week, as I was certain in my current state, that I would likely eat the contents of each box before gifting them – thus having to beat myself up over my lack of self-control and of course make another trip to the store for replacement candy.

I have decided to gift myself with a new house coat in recognition of the day.  One that does not carry with it the memories of my married life. One that does not require a pocket to be repaired and a belt to be replaced.

It is small thing, yet right now, it is in addressing the small things that I feel somewhat capable and  far less discouraged.