One of those days

Today is one of those days. One of those days when I can’t tease apart my anger and sadness. They dance so closely entwined that they are just one complicated, snareled, knotted emotion. One of those days when my sometimes astonishingly perceptive seven year old bluntly hits the nail on the head “What’s wrong mommy? Is it Damon?” Yes, baby.

Angry tears course down my cheeks because I’m just so tired. I’m tired of the unfairness of the world. I want to scream. When do we get a break? I’m furious at the endless emotional, mental, financial and relational aftershocks. I’m sick with my own helplessness, my complete lack of any semblance of control. My world still spins and I can’t seem to find an anchor.

There are points, clear points in grief when the world seems to lose patience with the bereaved, when you feel like it’s time for you to stop being so shattered and rejoin the rat race… six months, then a year. The world looks at you with impatient eyes that say “Ok, move on already.” For the most part I play the part. For the most part I function and it isn’t all forced, not anymore. A thrum of deep joy runs underneath my mothering. It is warm and sure and true. I truly enjoy moments stolen with my man between diaper changes, feedings, building dinosaur houses or watching Rugrats for the eleventy gazillionth time. I laugh with friends and I mean it.

But there are days when I ache for the solitude, the darkness that was my home for nearly a year after my child was stolen from me. I want to return to the black. I want to stay there forever drowning in the honesty of my pain. My therapist thought I feared the dark but she was wrong. I fear myself. I fear that if I ever go back I will never come out.

When do we get to catch our breath? When will the thrashing wind and rain abate? I’m angry today and my sadness surges and bubbles and boils so close to the surface it threatens to choke out the light. I’m so tired.

Until next time.

Belly rolls and baby feet

Warning: this post contains pictures of my post-three babies belly.

There's a voice in my head screaming "DON'T POST THIS!!!" That's usually a pretty good indication I should post...

So, a while back I ranted a little bit about those awful "motivational" pictures on Pinterest that pretty much only motivate me to hate myself. Recently I saw an anti or un "those" pictures. It was a mom in a bikini with her little girl wrapped around her waist hugging her stretch marks. I also saw one of a woman's tummy rolls with the words "still beautiful" tattooed on them and it was beautiful.

I have absolutely no problem with a woman being incredibly fit. I have been at certain times in my life. Some women are really muscular, some are thin, some fat, some tall, short and on and on. What I have a problem with is the message that there is only one way to be beautiful.

So here are my anti pictures. I may lose these few inches. I may not. Either way I'm gonna rock what I've got. I'm gonna wear a bikini because I feel prettier when I have a little bit of a glow all over. I'm going to wear skin tight clothes to yoga because that way my shirt doesn't fall over my head when I'm upside down and when Fall rolls back around I'm gonna rock my skinny jeans because I just plain like them. And I'm going to believe my husband when he says I'm beautiful. Life is too too too short guys. It just is.

belly rolls and baby feet!!!!!

Burn

I don’t think the agony of grief is ever “less” or “more,” “better” or “worse.” People very much want it to be better. They want to believe that the pain lessens. Some of that desire is for me but a lot of it is for them. It’s horrible to face the reality that someone you care about will never ever spend another moment purely happy. No one wants to believe that, but it’s true.

At Damon’s funeral I clung to another mother who many years ago had her daughter torn from her life. I moaned “Will it ever get better? Does it get better?” I was desperate. She didn’t answer. It’s very possible that she didn’t hear me and entirely likely that my words were just guttural noises of pain but even if she heard it wouldn’t surprise me, now that I am over a year out, if she just didn’t answer.

How would you tell a newly bereaved parent no?

What would I say?

Some of my favorite days are when Will and I spend the afternoon lazing in bed. Raz dozes on my chest while I read and his daddy plays a video game. Our bedroom is one of the brightest rooms in the house and the sunlight lightens my heart. It’s peaceful and there is a large measure of happiness and contentment here but there is still intense, profound pain. Always.

Rather than less or more I would say the pain is a slow deep burn or a shallow raging flame. Neither is easier, just different. The shallow flame is so much easier to see. I’m sure it seems worse but in some ways when the pain and anger a raging out of control it’s easier. When the tears come until there are none left there is a moment of release, of emptiness, of honesty. The deep burn is like an ulcer of agony living in my soul. Sometimes I get to the end of the day and stare at myself, astonished. Now, some of my worst days no one would know. I just keep going. I converse. I function. I move… and I burn.

Until next time…