No, I will never stop barfing, I guess. Up all night again, and now I'm feeling weak and shaky and sleepy. Again. A complete wash of a weekend. 

I ran into my neighbor walking Sven and promptly put my foot in my mouth asking how he was, not realizing the huge military funeral on Thornrose the other week had been for his son's sudden, unexpected death. I'm wondering if this was the same son who had tried to take his own life at the house years and years ago now and ended up with the swat team called, and if he died in a similar scenario. It would be a strange, sad coincidence if we're both grieving the far-reaching, devastating effects of a suicide, even if the circumstances are different, and there is no comparative pain to that of burying a child. Either way, what a rotten start to the year. 

Writing up my thing about Casey has helped, though, on my end. It feels less isolating to talk to people who also knew him and are experiencing the same total shock and horror of this. I was embarrassed to discover, in sending an old poet and friend from Hollins that picture of us all I posted earlier from Festival of the Book, that the friend had messaged me in 2016 and asked to publish my book. I hadn't even bothered to reply. It's no excuse that 2016 was a bad year for me. I apologized to him and explained that I never finished the book, that I was ashamed and embarrassed that I hadn't, and that was the reason for my rudeness. He said my book still has a place at his publishing house, but that I need to hurry, he's getting old. It was a generous answer. 

I'm trying to take that generosity forward into this hard year. To simply apologize if I'm wrong instead of freaking out and avoiding the situation. To check in with more people. To forget slights quickly and practice casual, easy kindness. And I should do something about my book, I guess.

But right now, I need to stop barfing.