Danny Castellano is Not my Boyfriend, Part II
Real Danny Castellano (meaning the real person I'd renamed DC) has a girlfriend. It's not me. Oops.
Oddly, we were texting back and forth last night about a recent news article. I'd not heard from him in maybe a week, so it was a pleasant surprise. The conversation fit in around my evening workout, a visit to my cousin's family, and lesson prep. I'd walked away from my phone for a bit and came back to read, "Did I mention I'm now seeing a really nice girl I met a couple weeks ago?"
Nope. Not until now.
But you'll be happy to know I was gracious. Part of it was out of obligation to social construct. Part of it is because I DO want him to be happy. Part of it was to save face. I'm not really upset, but it's sorely inconvenient. Let me give you a BIG reason why.
The truth is, there IS something in my life I am absolutely gutted over. Last weekend I got news that someone I love has been diagnosed with a terminal illness. Out of respect for her and her privacy, I'll not go into details of symptoms, but I will tell you how I'm dealing with it. Here's a hint: not well.
The problem is there are days I simply do not know where to put/keep/store/place/hide my grief.
Part of me is so angry-- angry because she didn't take better care of herself and angry that her life has been so full of strife it's a wonder she's coped so well for so long.
Part of me is scared-- this kind of situation really makes one face her own mortality, and the fact that we all will each have to cope with our bodies wearing out.
Part of me is weary-- taking my daily walks has been so difficult the last several days. It feels like a physical weight I'm dragging along. Movement does not come easily.
Part of me feels guilty and ashamed for feeling so awful, especially when I'm really not the one dealing with the scariness of the diagnosis and all its implications. I feel guilty that I can't alleviate the suffering, that I can't begin to offer anything more than sincere prayer and good wishes.
In short, it's been tough, and it hasn't been pretty.
What this looks like in real life is me getting four hours of sleep or less every night. It translates to me crying to the outsourced tech support guy in India who was trying to fix my computer and modem after hours of being pushed around by my ISP. It looks like drinking far too many Diet Cokes, and not eating nearly enough vegetables. It's me not returning texts and phone calls-- not because I couldn't use some human interaction, but it's because I'm in this fog.
So yes, having a DC would be helpful right about now. It wouldn't have to be that DC. Just someone who could pat my back and say, "There, there." I'm OK by myself, but I keep thinking it would be nice to have someone to shepherd me through my mourning.
But it's not Danny, who, truthfully Sokphal and I had already renamed Felicia.
On the bright side, this frees me up to look for someone to whom I'm more well-suited-- just as soon as I can pick myself up from the real, true reasons for sadness.