I HATE change. Hate it with a fervor that makes me sick to my stomach. Sudden changes put my on my heels and I have to work through my adjustments in my head until I can figure out what to do next.
Massive changes – losing my second parent in the course of two years, my job, my home and the vast majority of my belongings – take significantly longer. People who care about me have accused me of floating, of being depressed, or being adrift.
Yes, yes, and yes. All of the above, and I fully admit it.
I’ve had friends – dear, wonderful, supportive friends – who have held my hand, poured me a glass of wine and listened while I cried. They’ve opened their homes, surrounded me with love and warmth (and food), and worried while I tried to get back on my feet.
I’ve also had friends who have suffered, who’ve worried, who’ve used the tough love approach to try to goad me into getting back on my feet at a quicker pace. They’ve implied that I’m taking too long to get over it, that it’s time for me to move on and pick up with my life. While I understand what they’re trying to do, I resent that they think there’s some timetable that I’m falling behind on. They’ve mentioned that they can’t stand by and watch me continue to live my life this way, so I’ve done something that makes me truly ill.
I’ve said goodbye.
Perhaps I should’ve said “Au revoir” instead and maybe that’s what I mean, but I have enough of my own issues to contend with to deal with what feels like emotional blackmail on top of it all. Regardless of the best intentions of those around me, the ONLY one who can determine when I’m ready to reenter the world of the living is me.