Missing the 90s
It’s late May in Connecticut. The 7pm summer weather last night was cool but sunny.
This adds up to my soul desperate and longing for the early 1990s. All I wanted to do last night was call my friends on the telephone (land line) and go to a record store and get ice cream after. I wanted to pick up my friends and drive around with the windows down. The Gin Blossoms’ song ‘Hey Jealousy’ kind of sums up the feeling.
It’s May 2026 and my friends are dispersed and old. The ones who are not dispersed wouldn’t want records or ice cream. Everyone has other stuff to do except me. There are barely any record stores. I used to work at Music Outlet back in the 90s which was a great honor. All the cool or music nerd people worked there. I was more nerd. Music Outlet is gone. The closest I could have gotten to my longing last night was go to Goodwill and get ice cream, doing both alone. I stayed home and sat in my melancholy. I listened to Flock of Dimes and moved furniture around, took a shower, then went to bed.
This isn’t even specific to Frannie or caregiving, but I find myself lost a lot and giving up. When I had Frannie I had fight in me. I was fighting to get through my days and looking towards a future that was my own without tethers. Now that I have zero tethers I am just floating in the atmosphere. Making my house nice just feels like adding work. I pace the rooms and look out the windows for signs of life. When I do see people I want to hide, and I’m jealous of their ambition to be outside. I used to run at night in winter. Now I won’t go outside if another human is there. I’m trapped in my house. This is my self-imposed hospice. I’ve made this a bell tower that I’ve locked myself inside. No one tells you that when your cared-for person dies it doesn’t get better. It’s a different form of confusion and grief and pain. I don’t know how to recalibrate. I don’t know who I am. I was always a by-product of my family and now I’m trying to be my full self. My soul is intact but the human stuff outside of that is trashed. I don’t know how to keep moving through this. I’m trying to practice tolerating it all, but I’m tired of it consuming me and having it pressing me to be my identity. I don’t want to carry this anymore but it won’t let me drop it.
Photo story:
My morning ritual before work was pour over coffee. I made myself a cup with beans I ground with a hand grinder. I made a second pour of it into Frannie’s mug and left it for when she woke up. She didn’t like it strong so this was a treat that she really enjoyed. This was before she fell, so sometime in 2019.