[cont.]
The bad taste in her mouth was literal. She tried washing out the flavor of the protein bar with a big sip of wine. Not a wise choice. It made the wine taste metallic and nasty. She slumped back in her chair. Maybe Tiffani was right. Maybe she should sell the gallery. It wasn’t fun anymore. Little irritations which she normally could shrug off upset her more now. She didn’t seem to be able to let go of them as easily. Maybe her friends were right: if she couldn’t shake the grief, she needed to be on an antidepressant. She didn’t want to take drugs, though. Grief wasn’t a disease to be cured or a chemical imbalance to be corrected. It was a process. She suspected that taking antidepressants now would be like a teenager staying stoned throughout high school – it only delayed learning how to deal with natural anguish. But she knew Maggie was right too: she definitely needed to get out and about more. Closing herself off was the wrong strategy personally and was bad for business. It just seemed like so much effort to be among people. Half the time she still didn’t want to get out of bed in the morning. She had been making the effort, but she did need to get out even more. She knew that. Maybe she just needed to be around people who weren’t artists with impossible expectations. Learn from Kay, she exhorted herself, don’t indulge in self destructive behavior. Open yourself up. Find what makes you happy. Oh leaping lords, she was beginning to sound like Tiffani.
She stared down at the last bite of the bar in its foil wrapper and tossed it into the trash. Happiness might be elusive but one thing was for certain: it could not possibly include eating something like this. She really needed to find a protein bar that didn’t taste so much like cardboard dipped in cheap chocolate syrup. Life was too short to eat cardboard.
Return on Monday for the next chapters of Just Like Suicide.
