kicking, screaming and tsunamis

Some days I’m just pissed. Today is one of those days. I’m not mad. I’m not angry. I’m pissed. I want to scream and cry and kick and cuss and throw things. I’m pissed.

I’m pissed that this is real, that this is my life. I’m pissed at the suffocating cloud that has descended onto my house snuffing out laughter and conversation and nearly suffocating those who are just trying to survive this hellish month.

When things get really bad, when there aren’t words, when we’re short and snappy and inconsolable Will and I have taken to just saying “I hate life and I love you.”

I saw a tattoo last night. I like tattoos and piercings and all manner of things people get judged for. This particular tat said “It doesn’t get better. You just get better at handling it.” This is the truth people absolutely do not want to hear. I think an enormous part of the awkwardness and avoidance bereaved parents experience is plain and simple fear. If it could happen to me it could happen to you. I’m a reminder that life isn’t as sunny and perfect as you want it to be. The fact that I refuse to say it gets better, that the pain lessens, that the screaming ache in my chest ever subsides is even more terrifying. It doesn’t get better. Some days I’m better at handling it. Some days I’m not. Today I’m pissed.

Today I started a baby registry. I needed to DO something.

I’ve been running myself into the ground this month. I’ve been going as hard as my doctor and husband would let me. I’ve had ten different DIY and organization projects going. Partly because I’m nesting but mostly because I’m running. A few nights ago I was throwing-two-year-old–fits-tired and my husband confined me to bed to rest. “You’re exhausted baby, REST!”

The movement stopped and the tsunami of grief hit me like an unblocked J.J. Watt.

Over the past few days since I’ve been thinking about running. Why do I run from it? It always catches me, always. It catches me, holds me down and drives its white hot and ice cold stakes through every inch of my heart, soul and body. There’s nothing I can do about it. The MISSING, the pain, the ache, the guilt. Torture.

Maybe someday I will sit and wait for the wave. Maybe someday I will not run myself into the ground only to fall exhausted into the teeth of the oncoming ravages but something occurred to me when I was berating myself for running. Its human nature. If you were released into an enclosure with wild animals and you knew somehow that they would definitely, without question catch you in the end you would still run. I sure would. So I run.  

Every day is hard. Every minute. Every breath but this month sucks exceptionally. I’ve wondered if we should be doing something. I’ve read about people who have balloon releases or tree plantings. I don’t want to commemorate the most horrific day of my life. I want it to cease to exist. I want someone to sedate me and I want to wake up in April. The only thing I really want to do is a tattoo. I want to get a simple mark, I’ve considered slashes like whip marks and dandelion seeds because they remind me of him, but something every year. Something painful, something that says I don’t forget who was taken from me on this day. A mark for every year. This year I can’t because I’m growing Damon’s little brother but I will. I will make sure I’m marked. Every year.

Until next time…