The saw starts up again around 8:30 in the morning—both of them do—and all bets are off after that. Oh, yeah. We get to do that. I would despair, but I did this last winter, only the trigger then was cold. I just dealt with it. Day in, day out. I processed it. I suffered.
It’s harder now because the saw is just more closely connected to horror. It really is just worse. And it’s also a year later. I am tired and it feels so endless sometimes.
Other people are getting me through me this: the memory of the girls, C in the present. Maths Ma’am, who would like me to teach her son. Not as much, but that’s there. A friend asked me yesterday—we were chatting—”not you?”
Oh, God, no. I’d have to be the Virgin Mary, the Beatles, and heroin all rolled into one. I am not that great.
It’s an insane amount of suffering to manage just to try to achieve something like average. I understand that “average” could, possibly, feel pretty amazing to me once it happens, but it’s not something to count on.
And, yet, isn’t everyone I loved or love now sublime to me?