ATF: More Damn Stuff

At the house today to clean and take out more stuff. There is not one millimeter untouched by smoke. Not one. Even places we thought were okay, we were wrong.
I pulled books I can't replace and boxed them. I have anime books dating back to the early 80's. I have dolls, art, artifacts. I rescued my favorite lamp, and the base from a desk lamp. A beaded pineapple crocheted shawl I wore to the Eisners the year I sat with Nancy and Jesse McCann and Rich Johnston, worn over the infamous blue sparkly dress that shed all over the Convention Center, the Bristol Hotel and Jim Lee's face.
I found footprints in the soot on the windowsill.
I saw that a lightbulb in the utility room had shattered and the filament inside melted. I took pictures of the insides of cabinets and my lockers so we can document our losses.
I want so much to believe the cats didn't suffer, but their tortured silhouettes keep saying they were shocked, even if they were unaware they were dying.
The smell brings it all back in a rush. The firemen trying to revive MiMii, soft warm cat bodies, Yuki's tongue glued to the side of her head, the hopelessness, the bone-deep stink.

We got the plans for the new house. It seems so far away, I feel ambivalent. I'm afraid I'll hate it, be disappointed. Walking through the mess sucks away my hope. It makes me wonder why anything is worth doing, worth trying.

Every time I go I feel like this after. I am exhausted from crying. I am so torn between trying to save books and art and just saying "Fuck it."

Time for a couch trip to get that official diagnosis of PTSD, I suppose. Not that I'll know what to do with that.