…so I’m reading Anne Lamott’s excellent book, _Plan B: Further Thoughts on Faith_ and I get to the section where she’s talking about the death of her pet dog. Now I know the fact that I only had about three hours sleep in the last 24hrs (not counting the times I caught myself sleeping at work) is partly to blame, but not entirely. Like I said, I’m reading Lamott go on about the day her beloved dog died and…I can’t explain it but after a while it’s like I can’t even read because I’m tearing up so bad.
And then it happens. I close the book and I let it all out. I cry. It’s one of those cries from deep inside that you squeeze at like a zit, trying to force all the shit out. What was I crying about?
Everything, I guess. Geeze, this could get long. Let me put it this way. All the things I write about here, they’re just a shadow cast by the hulking mass of my loneliness and frustration. This stinking mass. It’s like a backpack. It weighs me down but because it’s out of sight, I just ignore it, make myself believe that it’s weight is normal, nothing to be worried about, nothing to deal with.
But the truth is, it weighs on me everyday. Some days I am strong and I don’t mind, I hardly notice it at all. Somedays I’m weaker and my shoulders ache. Then sometimes I just don’t have any strength at all. I buckle under and cry because this burden is a muthafucker and I don’t deserve it.
Sometimes crying can make you free. Sometimes it’s like sucking the venom out of a snakebite. But sometimes, it’s just crying and you wipe the tears away and move on. That’s the crying spell I had.
Still, it felt good, if only because it reminded me that there is still a soft, warm heart deep down inside. It cowers and hides from the sharp, cruel world outside. It’s become accustomed to the fallout shelter and has learned to trade the beauty of the world for the cold comfort of safety.
Anyway, I have to go now. I’d like to cry again so if you know of any good dead dog stories, be sure to run them by me.