First of all this short on empathy... is pretty perfect. I've already posted it on my FB page but, you know, a second look-see wont hurt anyone.
So... life, right?
Have any of you noticed how unbelievably hard it is to keep putting one foot in front of the other? If you haven't I pretty much hate you. I should say "I'm so happy that you haven't faced the kinds of pain blah blah blah..." And, ok, I wouldn't wish this kind of agony on ANYONE, EVER, NEVER EVER.
Ever
But seriously... if you are one of those sunshine and roses people.
I hate you.
And if you're that happy you can take it. So there.
Moving on.
I've gotten pretty good at partitioning. Apparently men do this naturally. If you need a funny five minute break from my ever sunny disposition you can find a video about men's boxes here.
Hi, welcome back. I was talking about partitioning. I've gotten pretty good at it. Apparently in my case its called PTSD. I take the reality that my son died in front of me and I put that white hot searing memory deep deep in my mind. I close and lock the doors to that box, wrap chains around the openings, and run. I run hard and fast and for as long as I possibly can. While I'm running I do things like research, parent, go out to dinner, have conversations... all while running screaming inside my head.
Partitioning.
I can usually feel it when the heat of that pressure cooker is about to blow. There's only so much repressed pain my mind can take. I get snappy and restless and more forgetful than usual. Instead of forgetting really complicated and unusual words like "TV" (yes, its happened) once or twice a week it starts happening once or twice a day. Then I crash. I cry and cry and cry until I can't breathe or think anymore and I hibernate for as long as I possibly can.
Those times are brutal.
But, in my busy little partitioning way I'd managed to persuade myself that I was managing better. My lies to the world convinced me to let my guard down... It's been weeks since your last crash. You're busy, you're getting stuff done, you're doing ok.
Then, I have a moment when that searing box of agony is opened by someone else. A time when I have to confront something for which there are no words, unprepared.
Today, I sat in a small room, pulling tissues out of a box shaped like a schoolhouse listening to the deep, profound ways that my eldest child is wounded by his brother's death. And suddenly all the lies, all the chains, all the walls I've thrown up are seared to ash and it's just me, naked in the inferno.
My children...
Will it never end?
