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.