about my granny.

and by okay, i mean we’re in a state of stasis, locked into routine.  same schedule.  same places.  same frustrations. 

we’re holding steady, but we’re holding in a very stressful place.  but, it’s better than backsliding.  we complain, but stay thankful.

…but we do complain.

since my last entry, i moved out of the house i grew up in with my mother and grandmother.  it was tough to leave—i know they both missed me very much, and would be sad to go; and i know it’s terribly convenient having another adult in the house to watch after my grandmother when my mother couldn’t due to schedule or stress.  i felt very guilty, and still do, but i had to.

there have been priceless benefits.  i no longer feel like running away and not telling anyone where i am… i’m much more relaxed and i like this city a lot more when i have my own space.  and probably the best benefit is that without having to handle my grandmother every single day—which is exhausting—my patience has grown exponentially.  it’s easier to handle all of the crying fits, the cussing, the turned up nose, the fight over dinner and pills.  but, ironically, what is still hard for me is the obsession with affection.

ive been struggling to find the nerve to write about this for a very long time.  i mean, what kind of cold, souless little imp gets tired of being hugged and kissed and told how much they’re loved?  i want to present it in such a way that it’s easy to understand, buti don’t want to offend anyone who is missing their grandmother, who would give anything for one more hug, one more kiss.  i also don’t want to look like a callous asshole.

these are the moments that i turn to fiction, where i can hide bits and pieces of the truth in dazzling arrays of words and distract with pretty phrases and cheeky dialect.  but even that has been difficult.  

this is why i try not to journal here.  fact is often much more terrifying than fiction.

anyway, this isn’t a flowery prose piece or anything.  just an update.  we are still here, we are still breathing.  we are still nursing calloused hands and hearts and tired smiles.  we’re still laughing to keep from crying and laughing til we cry.  we’re still rioting and against the long days and lamenting the shortness of life.  we’re still trying.  still flirting with dangerous fantasies that we know we all share, but will never acknowlege.

some of us are still praying.  some of us are tired.

but we’re still here, better or worse, fact or fiction.