Aftermath.

I don't know what happened. I was flying high today. Was feeling productive at work. Was happy to have finally spent our first night in the new apartment. Was feeling like things were looking up and was feeling like a survivor.

Then I went to the dry cleaners and snapped. I was going to pick up the mint green blanket that my great-grandmother had knitted me. It was on the floor of our living room when the fire happened, but somehow it survived. It wasn't burnt, but it had been soaked by the firefighters and was filthy. Alex took it to a dry cleaner who specialized in saving items that had been to hell and back and today it was ready to be picked up.

I was very excited to be getting the blanket back. I thought that was just because I was freezing last night and was looking forward to not being so cold when I slept tonight. I got to the dry cleaner at about 10 of 6 and the lady behind the counter pulled the blanket, wrapped in plastic, out from a pile of other completed projects. "Twenty-five dollars," she said. I pulled my wallet out of my bag and counted... twenty, one, two, three... I searched the bag but couldn't find any more cash. I asked if they accepted credit cards. They didn't. I didn't even have my checkbook with me. I tolk the woman behind the counter that I was just going to run and get a few more dollars but she said that they closed at 6. I stared at the clock. There was no way I'd be able to get cash and get back within five minutes. I stared at my blanket. I wanted to swipe it from the counter and tear into the plastic bag and bury my nose in the blanket to see if the horrible smell of my burnt home was gone from it.

"I guess I'll be back tomorrow for it," I said, gazing at the blanket, tears welling up in my eyes. The lady behind the counter gave me an odd look. Why was I getting so emotional? it was just a blanket. I felt the need to explain myself somehow. "We've just been through a fire," I stammered, "That's the only blanket we have now... I... I guess I'll have to pick another one up tonight..." And then I couldn't hold it back anymore. I choked in some air and turned and fled the store as tears started to fall down my cheeks. I cried the whole way home and fell into Alex's arms when I got home. He comforted me, confused about what could have happened at the dry cleaners that would make me so upset.

I told him what happened but as I was telling him the story, I realized that it really wasn't just because I didn't have a warm blanket for tonight that made me so upset. Ever since the fire, I've been trying to be strong. I've only cried twice before today about it. Once, right when the whole thing was going down for about 5 minutes, and then once last week. I figured that there's nothing that I could do. My apartment burned down. I was going to have to accept it and move on. Besides, no one really wants to hear you say how you're really feeling. That you're desperately scared and feeling displaced and disconnected. That now, every time you smell smoke you get sick to your stomach. That it still hurts even though it's been a few weeks and you're trying to move on. That you know it's going to hurt for a long time and that there's really nothing that anyone can do about it.

Because, when it comes down to it, yes, it was just stuff. That's what everyone wants to point out to you. That's what you find yourself telling everyone. "Well, the important thing is that no one got hurt and that it was just stuff and it can be replaced." Well, yeah, that's important and sort of true. The stuff can be replaced. But, for now, I have to try and live without it and all that stuff was my life. It was my HOME. It was where I felt comfortable and empowered and safe. And now all that stuff - my home - is gone and I've lost those feelings. My apartment didn't burn down, my home burnt down.

I'm lucky that I have Alex. If I had to go through this alone, I don't know how I'd cope. It helps to have someone else who's going through exactly what you're going through. When I lose my ability to maintain the survivor act, he's there to let me know that it's OK. I can cry to him about it without worrying that he's bored hearing about it. No, that's not it - well, not all of it. I mean, I do worry that people are bored hearing about the fire, so I don't bring it up. But I'm also very aware that people might be uncomfortable talking about it. They don't want to hear about such a tragedy because it's just too real and scary. It could happen to them and they don't want to think about it. They want to say whatever they think will comfort you and hear you say that life goes on and stuff can be replaced and that it's all OK.

I guess this is coming off very cynical and bitchy. I don't mean to be that way. I'm just really only realizing now the vastness of my loss. Sure, it's just stuff, but that's not all I lost. I lost my feelings of comfort, safeness, and security. I lost my home - and it takes a long time to get home back. :(