Until yesterday, there were roughly three kinds of people in the world for me. That is, of the people who know in any level of detail what has happened in my life in the last 3 months or so, there are those who just carry on business as usual, never asking me anything explicit or acknowledging my loss in any way, which is understandable given that we are not close friends and I assume it's not exactly the easiest subject for them to broach; those who make a conscious effort to let me know they know and care, who assume a worried look and ask in a solemn voice - which is not to say that they do so in a contrived or insincere way - "so how've you been?", to which I usually muster an "OK. Crazy. I'm not sure." if I'm in a talkative mood and then we move on; those who know every up and down of my roller-coaster existence, who hear the second before I fall asleep that I actually think there is not a moment during the day when I do not think of N, that she is there in my head, like a dull pain that flares up occasionally but is always present, with every single thought I have or thing I do; who hear practically every morning that I dreamt of N and that we were fighting the whole night long. Broadly speaking, that last category is DH.
Until yesterday. Yesterday morning, in the most unanticipated scenery - me musing alone in the coffee break of a conference where I didn't really know anyone well enough to be engaged in conversation, where I was out of my "Classics" water but also particularly gloomy (if we're looking for psychological reasons here) since I was a wannabe artist in a room mostly full of art-theorists (which I am not, either) addressing the question of praxes-theory dichotomy - here another category of people emerged. He came up to me, kissed me on both cheeks in a semi-formal semi-friendly way, asked me how I was, and I started to cry.
THE END. (Well, no, the end was actually that I promptly excused myself and went to wash my face while 4th category jokingly said I was condemning myself to self-exile. Indeed).
And to other neurotic news. I helped a friend pack, who is leaving Chicago for the whole goddamn summer (it is going to be 88°F = 31°C tomorrow. I rest my goddamn CASE) and subletting their apartment (her husband is already away so that's why I was there. Partly I guess). So just for some background information on the situation: this packing occasion taught me you can buy a queen-size (or king, or whatever your humungous American-size mattress) plastic bag. Let me pause here. A plastic bag in which a mattress can fit. I am IN HEAVEN. The heaven made explicitly for Neurotics with Severe Obsessive-Compulsive Hoarding Plastic Bags Disorder. DH can just leave me here and come back in a week. I will be much easier to handle then. (Indeed, part of what ensued is no doubt due to the fact that I did not stay to bathe in the light of Plastic Bag Creation long enough.) In any case, you might have been wondering why we needed to pack the mattress if she's subletting the apartment. You're right to wonder! So the thing is (background info etc): this friend does not want to, how shall I put it, SHARE every single thing she and her husband own with the subletters. That's what the old IKEA mattress is for. And so a huge walk-in closet was to be transformed into a no-zone storage room, contents of which subletters where kindly asked not to inquire about. And so I was there to help wrap a good-quality (i.e. pretty heavy) mattress with a yellow plastic bag, drag it across the floor and into the closet, and then help with decision-making on what to pack for four months (isn't that the most nerve-wrecking decision making in the world), as well as in the end remove sticky notes from a library-book due back before closing hours, only to make a little list of the page numbers where these sticky notes were stuck (that was my very own initiative), so, like every respectable PhD-student, my friend can re-check the book out in the fall and skim over again what she has already diligently read in careful intellectual selection. Granted, the realization that there are people with working-habits as bad as mine should have been pay enough for my time and support - not that I was in it for compensation. But I guess I did offer some valuable help countering mattresses and loneliness-decision making AND self-doubts lest her subletting policies may be unacceptable, and so deserved the freshly-frozen Wholefoods salmon steak and other random perishable foodstuff that the fridge still contained at 8 pm on the eve of subletting day and was thus handed over to us (by that time DH was already there to say goodbye too).
And now here's what happened: I glanced over at the Organic Raw Sugar, shimmering in non-even size crystals the color of extremely clean sand, and said "You're leaving them this expensive sugar?!" Please believe me that in the context of the giveaways and store-aways of the few hours that preceded, I was wholeheartedly naive. I mean, yes, it's sugar, nothing perishable. And I had time enough to respond to the "You can have it" she addressed me with "No way, you have to leave them sugar, here, put some in this jar", time enough, that is, to figure out that I was acting like someone who really WANTS to HAVE this ORGANIC RAW SUGAR. But my brain is weird and its workings are set in indescribable paths. So we get home after a frenzy of schlepping stuff of various shapes and weights, including beer bottles and a yoga-mat I received on loan, and the ORGANIC RAW SUGAR package is retrieved from one of the bags. And I act surprised: "She gave us the sugar?!" DH: "Yeah, you totally wanted it".
Here's where I have an emotional heart attack combined with an epileptic seizure. NO WAY, HOW could I have BEEN SO GREEDY as to HINT THAT I WANT HER EXPENSIVE SUGAR!!! "Well, you helped her pick out the jar and everything. It's fine though, I really don't think it was so odd or anything. And I don't think you're GREEDY." Poor DH. Trying to talk reason into me. I HAVE TO GO BRING IT BACK. "No, you don't". WWWWWWWOOOOOOOOEEEEEEEE. I AM A GRRReeDY HORRRRRIBLE PERSON, make that A SHADOW OF A HUMAN BEING. "Um, Lou? You're overreacting." YOU OBVIOUSLY DO NOT UNDERSTAND ME AT ALL!!!!!!!!!!!! Probably because I AM A COVETOUS GREEDY INSATIABLE IDIOT, THE EPITOME OF THE OPPOSITE OF A FRIEND not to mention the PARAGON OF MEDIOCRITY! (I am very eloquent when I'm overreacting) WHO would EVER WANT TO KNOW ME! HOW can you STTTTTAND BEING AROUND ME?!?
Conclusion of several hours and a nights-sleep afterwards: I think I still have at least two friends in the world. One willing to talk sense into me and fall asleep by my side every single night. Isn't he brave, people? The other on the way to the Mediterranean for the summer. Bonne Voyage!
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