Let's study them in light of my recent loss.

1. Denial This is considered a 'healthy' stage. Yeah, I'm pretty healthy. I couldn't breathe, couldn't talk, was leaking from my face, and found it difficult to stand up--those all sound like healthy activities. No, there must be a mistake. My stuff is somewhere, hidden in the apartment like an elaborate game of 'Who's got the Button' and I just don't know where to start looking. It's a mistake, who would break into my place and take my stuff during the broad daylight with people everywhere, all around, with no one noticing? It's a mistake, no one would take just a few things, they would have taken everything and why did they pick only my things and nothing of my roommate's? It's a mistake, my LASIK is failing me and I'm really blind but I just think that I can see, but I'm not really seeing the room at all. It's a mistake, my stuff is gone.

My possessions are no longer my possessions.

2. Anger or ResentmentThose bastards. I hope they die. No, I hope they tripped as they ran away and fell and hurt themselves, possibly life-threatening, and are in a great deal of pain. No, I actually hope they strained something vital trying to get into the house and they are in severe discomfort and then are incapable of moving the merchandise for a decent price and have to take a loss, yes, a loss, on the day because there's a glut of stolen merchandise from the Lakeview area so they're out of luck and out of money and can't buy an ice pak for their strained muscles and so they have pain and suffering of multiple kinds.

Burn, m-f, burn. (Edited because I love my mother, and don't want an email about language usage)

(Insert insults regarding their parental origin, questionable sire, their lifestyle choices, their socioeconomic and property-rights views, their limited brains, their questionable mental capabilities, their abilities to further bear progeny, etc etc etc) And why just my stuff? What's so special about Doofus' stuff? Why did he get to keep his? I'm sure it would have made them some money. Why not anything of his? Why not the speakers? Why not the random smattering of cds that were left? Were they not good enough for you? You take most of my cds, but don't take 'em all? Have the balls to clean me out entirely so I can start anew, not mourn everything that's gone and be reminded of just how much is missing? And did you have to make such a mess in my jewelry? Do you not know that any woman who keeps her valuables IN A TACKLE BOX has nothing you're going to want, so just don't even start? No matter what color it is, a Caboodle is a tackle box. I grew up near Plano, as in Plano Moulding, home of the Caboodle. I know these things. WHY DON'T YOU??? And next time, CLOSE THE DAMN DOOR. Don't let all the bugs in, bastards.

3. Bargaining Why didn't this happen when I was home? Why didn't I come home earlier like I planned, maybe I would have caught them and been able to do something? Why didn't they make more noise so Wayne would have heard them? Why didn't this happen tomorrow when I'd be home and then I could *really* do something? Why? Why? Why? (Ok, technically, it's not bargaining. But what can I ask for? I promise to only watch PBS if you make this all a dream? I would forgive them if they just brought it all back? *snort* I'd make their lives miserable and make them rue the day they decided to take other people's things for their own benefit. There is no bargaining.)

4. Depression This would be the crying. The wobbly chin, the leaking face, the messiness that is memory. Thinking of the movies I loved that are not currently available to me. The loss of all my hard-earned money that went for favorite directors and artists and obscure compilations. The loss of good friends, cds that have seen me thru every break-up and first date, every life milestone since high school, gifts from friends and loved ones, my autographed Garbage cd, my hard-to-find Strictly Ballroom dvd, my splurge of the Titus dvd, my over-expensive imports and the cds that were travel souvenirs, and... you get the idea. I cried yesterday as I was looking thru my tapes and found one with Suzanne Vega on one side and Depeche Mode on the other--two favorites that I had copied before I even owned a cd player. I cranked it up and cried because I was happy and sad and happy and sad...and then sucked it up and went to play softball, because there's no crying in softball.

But no crying today.

5. AcceptanceShit happens. And it happens to everybody. And it happens to control freaks, and people with property issues, and people who think that in the wide world of burglary, there is no 'yours, mine, ours', and people who wish they could have a do-over on the day, and people who generally believe in the good of people. And it happens to me.

And it's only inanimate objects, pieces of plastic and metal that can be replaced. It wasn't my friends or family or heirloom jewelry that means more to me than anyone might imagine, or my artwork created by friends, or my photos of adventures near and far, or my favorite high school shirt that's softer than air, or my bankie, or my health or my memory or my life. It's just stuff that was mine and I wish I still had it but I don't really need it and life's going to go on.

But if those bastards had taken my books...

~~~~~

The actual order of grieving that occured went something like this:

denial, anger, hysteria, anger, depression, acceptance, denial, anger, anger, denial, bargaining, hysteria, anger, hysteria, acceptance, hysteria, acceptance, depression, acceptance, acceptance.
I think that at this point, the acceptance wins and I'm done.

~~~~~