Today I flew back to Scary City, arriving at the airport an hour and a half before my class began. I'd extended my trip to Home City by a day. I wasn't ready to come back early Monday morning. I was still in the thick of the grief, and didn't want to leave R yet. She stayed home from work. I didn't go out out of the house all day - and we ordered a pizza and watched DVDs. We actually hadn't had a day like that, and I think it was necessary. My father had come in from his City to be with me, on Friday after Mr. K went, and we'd spent Saturday afternoon with him, in a weird haze, doing errands and going to a distracting movie. On Sunday, we'd taken ourselves out for lunch just to get out of the house and the awful feeling of emptiness there.
Then this morning I got on a plane. Every time I come back here, I dread it more. This time, it felt like I was saying goodbye to Mr. K all over again, for some reason. The next time I go back, he'll be gone. It honestly feels like my heart is broken. I - non-believer that I am - am so worried that he's lonely.
But here I am, and all that. Back in the thick of this job. I can't care. I have this whole freaking week of events planned for early March, and it is both stressing me out (misunderstandings, budget problems, and just WAY TOO MUCH TO THINK ABOUT GOOD GOD EIGHT EVENTS?!) and making me confront the fact that I just don't care. I guess that is the clearest sign that I'm depressed (which is certainly how this new therapist has diagnosed me). This week of events was my idea, and now I just want to crawl into a hole until it's done. But pretend to feel I must, somehow. The depression books talk about loss of motivation and apathy and lack of energy. But they don't say what to do when you have to do a song and dance, feigning your investment in something that, by rights, you should care about - that it is your job to care about. And that you did once care about. While grieving the loss of your best friend. Blech.