I lost my mom right before COVID and have been stuck living in her home, because I was fired from my job when I took time off to care for her. Fortunate, really, or I'd be unemployed in NYC.
We sold her house. I'm living in her sold house now. We have to sell all her stuff next week.
Last week, my brother asked me to take her coffee maker to the storage unit he's rented, but please make sure to rinse it out with vinegar first. He took her car home with him when he left. He wanted to put her ashes into storage, but I begged him and now I can carry her ashes with me when I go live in the camper that I'm borrowing until I can find my footing again. It's not his fault. He's fighting his own battles, and he's doing the best he can. He feels guilty that he hasn't done more.
Yesterday, a cohort of sweet old women that I hired came to her house and started bagging up all the things that can't be sold. I had to run out of the house before I hyperventilated. I've only had panic attacks, before now, while working for the job that fired me last December.
I'm not mad at anyone. I'm just really really sad. In a few weeks, I'll be somewhere else doing better things, but for now it's just one continual stream of sad. I rely too heavily on the woman I'm involved with and the friends I game with, and I try my hardest to not make my grief their burdens, but I don't always succeed and I feel really guilty about that.