I have regarded my condition in recent years with a smug pride. Since I returned to Texas in 2014 I have found a place to live, furnished my quarters adequately, and live a comfortable existence. Comfort, both in regard to physical circumstances and to my mental/emotional existence. I read of older folk having problems — especially those who live alone. And I take pride in my equanimity in my reclusive life style.
Until recently. During the past two or three months I have been unusually emotional.
I begin to mourn. Which I have previously avoided. But I feel sadness that is bothersome and distracting, thinking often of loved ones who are gone. Some of them departed for as long as twenty years. Why, now, do I grieve?
I ponder.
And then it comes to me.
The trigger — that intrusion onto my placid existence. . .
It seems so obvious. I should have recognized it sooner.
Not that it would have mattered. I would still have gone down the same slope.
Actually crying on occasion. Drinking a lot more than I have ever done in the past. Sometimes three drinks in a day.
But I will preservere.
(What seems like a carelessly misspelled word may be a neologism. Not that it matters, but I may be attempting to engineer a portmanteau)
That trigger referred to above would have been the death last November of my friend Carl. It's as if he opened a door that I had assiduously kept closed, secure against the storms of sadness. And through that open door came a flood of suppressed emotions.
I resolve to assert a stoic composure — I will not tolerate such juvenile diversions.
I hear Pop's voice — “Buck up, boy — men don't cry.”
Okay, Pop.
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