I've stayed away from sensitive (to me) subject matter lately, most likely as much in self-protection as with the understanding that the world wide web doesn't need to hear me whine.
a hundred little things stab at me, open up that bubble of grief and sorrow that lives inside. simple things, like kindnesses and hugs. pictures. stuffed animals he held, blankets that covered him. his pillow is still here; I cannot yet deal with it. I cannot even imagine the day when I will be able to take that pillowcase off and wash it.
every time I see a paratransit bus I feel a stab, as this is the system jake used when he came to visit me.
almost every time I drive past primary children's hospital, stab.
whenever I slow down enough and the distractions creep away and leave an opening, stab.
at times I sit and try to let it all sink in.
but most of the time I try to occupy myself with something that doesn't allow for thought, or at least not that kind of thought.
then there's biking.
most of the time while I'm spinning away either in class or on my real bike I can hold it at bay. I am occupied with something either so challenging that there's not oxygen enough to think, or I am absorbed in the pleasure so that sadness drifts aside and fades into the periphery.
at times, I can outrun it if I pedal hard enough.