Did you read my little quip? Did it all show up? My ramble started early; you're welcome.
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Double you're welcome because it's Thursday, and I got nauseated and had to stop eating the "dinner" (read small amount of leftovers that may or may not constitute a whole meal depending on whether or not you are a small child) I got for myself. So, I decided to sit down and write this little introduction.
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See, this week, rather than rambling to you about whatever happenings I got up to this week (spoiler, I searched and searched for buttons and have had no luck. RIP Joann's), I might try something new with this newsletter. I'm going to rant and ramble a bit more, just to really see how much of your attention I can stretch while asking you to read my nonsense, and then eventually I'll get around to telling you exactly what it is I am doing. Or you can skip ahead to the text below the divider and get on with it.
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The first thing that used to come to my mind when I heard the word grief was death. Actual death, rather than the "death" of a lost routine, sense of stability, or other upset/ life change. It's one of those topics that you either really enjoy or shy away from. I'm fascinated by death. For context, I was sitting within arm's reach of my grandma when she took her last breath. Grandpa and I were talking about a western book, Shane, that I have yet to read, although I immediately purchased it, and it is one of the 2-3 books my grandpa has read in his 80+ year-long life. Grief, on the other hand, less fascinated. It tends to be heavy and lingering, and as someone who struggles in the depressy department, I don't tend to welcome additional dampening feelings. With that being said, trigger warning to my family that reads these, because below will be a letter I'm writing to my late Grandma Carol. (There is also a little quip after the letter, so feel free not to read something private that I'm being vulnerable and sharing.)
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For context, I don't know how to start this. It's been 971 days since you left this consciously perceivable realm. I made the move to Massachusetts, you'd never believe it, but grandpa drove the minivan from the Quad Cities to Western Mass following me, and then back all by himself. I completed my Bachelor's. Rather than writing children's books, I went for more of an exposé-style ethical analysis of full-service restaurant workers' compensation. Truth be told, I'm not as proud of it as I thought I would be, but I did it, and I have a fancy degree! I've also fooled around and fallen in love, again; you know me. I say that flippantly, but in all seriousness, he is spectacularly wonderful, and I so wish I could see you see me be so happy. Oh! How could I forget about Mae Mae?! She's 8 now, can you believe that?! I've somehow kept something other than myself alive and well for quite some time. I know this is a bit morbid, but when her time comes, I'm going to have her pelt and skeleton preserved. Her little front leg bones are going to rest with you. I can't play tug with her without thinking of her little hops forward when you two would play on the couch. Also, I think I've gone far enough into this without saying that I miss you terribly; there's not a day that goes by that I don't think about you. I'd be lying if I said I've forgiven myself fully for not calling more after I moved to California, for not spending more time with you, asking questions, and learning while I was still so close by, and for all the times I misplaced my frustration on you. Realizing that this time, when I say I'm sorry for those things, I actually mean it. That is, of course, with the previous knowledge bestowed upon me by your only daughter, my mother, "Sorry means you won't do it again." We went through loads of your photos in preparation for the funeral, and I had this strange moment of wondering who you were all the years you existed before me, and wondering who I will be all these years existing after you. This is when I follow up to my comment about taxidermying my dog, and tell you my whole plan, to have her feet turned to keychains, the running joke is when she gets her nails trimmed we actually "cut her peets off" and that she "needs to go see Sonja or Taylor so they can call DPS" which she is convinced is dog protective services, not just someone that will give her a treat and tell her its okay. As previously mentioned, her pelt will be preserved, and I can drape it over a chair for some extra hygge. The rest of her skeleton cleaned, some bones going to rest with you, her skull will likely be on a shelf somewhere near my wisdom teeth. Now, THIS is when I imagine you letting out that exasperated breath that may or may not have been from your hardened lungs, and chuckle, smiling, saying "Oh Julia.." while shaking your head because I made you think of something you might never have thought of otherwise. Then this is when I realize that I'm going to be okay. Even when I feel like a crumpled-up ball of soggy paper, forgotten about and tossed aside. I am still, and always will be, the spunky little girl who argued until everyone was red in the face, dying on my hill that the sun sets in the East. (Don't worry, I've lived on both coasts now and am on the adults' side with the red face, but damn if I don't admire little me's tenacity to dive in, bite down, and chew even if it was more than she could handle.) I've grown up a little, and now my arbitrary arguments come with a sneaky smirk because I'm either annoyed with or being the devil's advocate. I'm still the little girl walking into Southpark Mall with you and mom after church on Sunday. Asking why we never use the Von Maur entrance, and you doing that same breath, chuckle and smile saying "Oh Sue, shes a champagne and strawberries girl on a beer and pretzles budget", except you taught me to sew, to appreciate things that have lived life, to take proper care and responsibility for the people and things we interact with, and to hang on because whatever it is, its worth it. My eyes are swollen, cheeks red, and nose running. I think this proverbial piece of paper is running out. I wish we had more time. I love you.
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Not even a little bit sorry about that, y'all. I needed to get it out, and maybe you needed to know that it is okay to write a letter to someone who has left your life, be that by death or distance. Plus, this is my newsletter that you signed up for, blindly and consensually, and I get to do what I want.
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Expect more love letters from me to my past. It's something I've always found the catharsis in, and here's a little story about a time I remember doing so-
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It was 2022, I was alone in California, sitting at the bar at Joe Jost's, eating some eggs and snack mix, nursing a beer and a can of Diet Coke, scribbling some letter to a boy I thought had scorned me. There was, per usual, a handsome bartender, beer googles not included. He was curious about what I was writing, so I divulged, telling him it was a letter to someone that I may or may not send. I think in the end I burnt it, but it was a great way to say things without saying them. I left him my phone number, because why the hell not, I think I wrote something like "here's your chance for a girl to someday be writing you a letter in a bar." He did text me to tell me he was in a relationship, but that he admired my action and wished me all the best. I later ended up waiting on his dad one morning at Chuck's, pieced it together, told him he had a great kid, filled his coffee, and went on with my life.
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So seriously, do the silly thing. Start a scream club, even if it's only one person. Fart in public, skip across the parking lot, whatever it is, find it, and let yourself exist for just one moment.
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I'll round it out here by saying that I hope you either enjoy or avoid your family, whichever is best for you, Happy Whatever.
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