How old are your kids?

Depression sneaks up on me. Not like I’m not always depressed, I am. And it’s not like depression itself is new in my life. I’ve ‘managed’ depression (some times better than others) since I was 16. I know what it feels like. I know the warning signs of a slide into oblivion. But depression intermingled with profound grief wrapped in a nearly impenetrable armor of PTSD… that’s new. The black heaviness creeps in little by little until I can’t process my world. The newest weirdest thing is my developing ability to hide this. Not from Will but from the rest of the world. It’s like some switch goes off and I’m on automatic pilot, my real self watching my shell self have conversations and function. Meanwhile I’m battling between the desperate desire to return to the black and the knowledge that I need to crawl toward the light… 

  

The sucky thing about becoming more ‘functional’ is days like today. Today I had my first “oh, how old are your kids?” conversation. A perfectly nice acquaintance asking perfectly normal questions… to which I have no normal answers. “Is this your first pregnancy?” (I get that one a lot. I’m taking it as a complement) “My third.” “Oh! How old are your kids?” Searing, shrieking pain that this person has no idea they are inflicting… what do I say? “Seven years and 19 months” 19 months? Damon will always be 19 months… How do you tell someone in a casual conversation who means nothing but good “my second child died ten months ago”? I don’t know…  I honestly don’t even know if I could say those words outloud.

I had my first dream about my little acrobat last night. Usually I dream about Damon… almost every night. Some nights I just get to hold him, touch him, smell him… other nights I relive the torture of his death. Last night it was little Raz (yes, that’s his name). He was unbelievably tiny and I was a bumbling fumbling idiot. How do I hold a newborn again? I almost always dream my fears… no escape for this girl. But this is the first time I’ve dreamt of him. The first time I’ve “seen” him so to speak. It feels significant somehow, like maybe my shattered heart is beginning to believe he’s real.

Life is hard, ya’ll. I miss my baby. I miss him more every day. The pain just burrows deeper and I get better at walking through it. It never lessens, never takes a break. I miss him, every second, every minute, every breath. Damon, Mommy misses you…

Until next time.