I didn't get to write yesterday. Which is not true. Yet true. I had some time inbetween things. But I needed to blank out. Not write. Not to say that writing is a chore. It's not. I'm extremely grateful to be able to write about this, to be open. But some times are just not writing/processing/thinking times. Some times just have to be downtimes. Pun definitely not intended, but probably still correct.
Yesterday was ok. I got through it. One of my play readings was of the PM and I was dreading negative feedback afterwards, but it was mercifully absent. People were actually very supportive and kind. I was grateful. This all has made me extra-grateful. I've never said so many Thank Yous. But I mean them all.
Because the day before sucked. I wrote on that day, I know - but the morning leading up to the post, I was confronted by how thoughtless and mean people can be, and I was definitely not in the place where I was feeling strong. I'm not saying anyone who knows what happened was mean. But the casual cruelty of strangers can be so acute. It can be that much more acute when I'm essentially fragile. I think about the quote, ascribed to Plato, I think, about being kind, because everyone is fighting a harder battle. I don't actually believe that, entirely, when I think about it. Some people don't fight battles. Some people are egomaniacs and assholes. But I don't operate from that worldview. So - it makes it harder for me when confronted with people who could care less about my humanity. I'm not turning cynical, but I feel like maybe I should take a different tack in some areas of my life. Let's just say, my work on Wednesday made a lot of my altruism go out the window. And some empathy along with it.
Anyways. I'm feeling my emotions close themselves off, a little. Because I'm a few days further away from the trauma. But I keep catching myself locked into a facial expression that is not my normal expression. I feel sad and I reflexively question this, but since today I can just dink around for the most part, I know why I don't feel like feeling on. I don't know if I'm capable of being on. Probably could do it through strength of will. But it would make me feel worse, later.
I keep thinking about times when Biff was especially vulnerable, and these lacerate me. I might've said this, but it keeps coming up: I never got over giving him up. It was the right thing to do for him given the circumstances, but I feel guilty that the circumstances were even there. I honestly wish I could go back, just so I could keep him with me. Not to begrudge his time with my mom. But he and I belonged to each other especially. I took care of him when he needed it. I put him before me. I do feel that giving him up was part putting him before me, part me wussing out. I've apologized to him over and over. It hurts me that he couldn't know, couldn't understand how much I didn't want to, and how much I loved him and do love him. He always remembered me the way I wanted, needed him to. He was close by. He was with my dear parents. But I wish I could fix every thing that ever happened to him that was not ideal. Which is plenty. Because basically, every time I left the house he was lonesome. But there were a couple of times that really just hurt, HURT. Like leaving him with my dear friend Kate and her husband and pugs, to watch him (so lovingly) when I my parents went out of town. He was overwhelmed at first so I picked him up and put him on my lap. He looked up at me and I said "kisses" and he gratefully licked my face. And then I had to go. Or I just left, because who I was with had a destination. And this memory truly haunts me. He was still probably scared, and I left. Not because I wanted to. But because I wussed out.
He would sit on my lap whenever we went to the vet. He hated the vet. He wouldn't relax, but he would sit on my lap and he would give me kisses. Once, at a low-cost vet, we had to wait for a few hours, and he sat and watched the other animals the whole time. We got in with the vet, got what he needed, and then he passed out from fatigue in the car. That is not a bad memory, but I remember his anxiousness.
Which makes me think of Monday. It was deeply painful and upsetting to me to find him in such acute distress. I didn't want it to be like that. But as I was thinking about this today, I realize that there was a backhanded mercy to this: I don't think he had any way of knowing where he was, or that he hated it, when we took him in. I think it sucks that he had to die somewhere he hated, even if he didn't know. And that I had to leave him there, sobbing hysterically because I couldn't even bring myself to look at his face after he died. I should've done it at home. I just didn't think. I didn't let myself think. I didn't understand. I still don't. I can hang on to the knowledge that I helped him. But it's still hard. It felt undignified. And it might've, even if I had it done at home. But the whole thing was jarring. Deeply jarring. Traumatizing. And it shouldn't have been that way. Not for my little dog. Not for my heart, which is full of my little dog.
I am grateful, though, that even in his pain he recognized me, once. Just once. But I'll take it. He gave me last kisses. He remembered me. I hope he does exist somewhere. I hope that that somewhere makes it so that he knows, so that he understands. I hope he is with love, because he deserves to be with love. That's the only other existence I could possibly hope for. Being known, and being loved. I'm going to keep looking for this existence, again. Because I have never been okay with suffering - mine, or any other creature's. And I hope it's not all for nothing.