The last few weeks have kicked me in the goddamn face a few times.

 

I’d started having panic attacks on a massive scale as the year drew to a close. I’ve recently become embroiled in a lot of stuff with the administration at my school – as I believe I noted in my last post, a big part of the reason I have been posting less here is that I have been Doing Things in the real world as far as the sexual misconduct policy, school’s response, and training the RA’s and so on receive. The flip side of this is that now, on top of finals, I also had A Shit Ton Of Other Things To Do. Even a meeting with the provost, which I was really excited about, because she’s basically The Person Who Makes Things Happen on this campus. Even so, I was coming apart at the seams a little, between the rising anxiety that I’m almost considering looking into medication for, and the continued stress of a) not hearing back from the police, and b) My Rapist being back in town, and c) still not being Over It.

Then, my granddad died.

See, my maternal grandparents did about half the work of raising me. Up until I left for college, I’d never lived more than ten minutes away from them. I knew my granddad had been having heart trouble recently; but, unfortunately, that was nothing new. The man seemed pretty much indestructible – he’d been in and out of hospitals for about two decades, but always bounced back just fine.

In hindsight, though, I think he knew he was dying. The last time I talked to him, he stayed on the phone longer than usual and was more serious than I’d usually heard him (I attributed this to the meds he was on; usually, I can’t get the man to stop joking around with me long enough to get a serious word in edgewise). He told me he loved me, that he was proud of me. He told me to be a good girl.

He went back to the hospital for a few days, and when he got back, I tried to call. They didn’t answer, so I left a voicemail and told myself I’d call back the next day. I got busy, I forgot. And then the day after that, my mom called me early in the morning and said that Grandpa had died that night. I missed the meeting with the provost, and I got on a plane.

 

Finals start tomorrow, but I was at home this weekend for the service anyway. Quick flights, no sleep, trying to get my grandma’s stuff moved into a new apartment while keeping my meth-addled cousin (there’s one in every family) from being able to steal anything valuable. I got back less than 12 hours ago, and have come down with some sort of foodborne thing that has me intermittently attempting to vomit quietly in a public bathroom (ah, dorm life). There were so many relatives there this weekend, I didn’t even get a chance to try to get one of my granddad’s old sweatshirts. I know exactly the one I wanted, too. But he loved me, and he gave me the old key to the bakery he used to run because he knew I’d like it, so I have something to remember him by.

I miss my grandpa.

I only really cried once so far, except at the service. Alone in my room – the kind of crying where you just stare into space and make little squeaking noises and don’t really blink. Everyone else cried all the time this weekend, but I can’t cry around other people. I have to take care of them. I don’t know why.

 

I have posts I want to write. Most notably, a continuation of the last real post I made, about Problems With The Assertion That Women Cry Rape. I want to write it. But I have finals, and I have to throw up, and I just want to hide somewhere.

We’ll see what happens.

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