The
aftershocks of grief roll on.
The damned
holiday season… I spend most of Thanksgiving locked away sobbing while my
family laughed and talked a floor below. It was the darkest I’ve been in a
while. I was swallowed by the black, suffocating. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t
stop crying. I was crushed under the waves.
So far I’ve
spent the build up to Christmas vacillating between the urge to create new
traditions and the desire for everyone and everything to go to hell. I refuse
to put up the tree that Damon pulled down and permanently wonkified in the
process. I will not hang stockings and try to decide if I will hand four or
five. I wont. I did create a messy little tree of lights on our living room
wall. My first born absolutely loves it and the rainbow baby stares at the
lights like it’s the coolest thing he’s ever seen so I’m satisfied. There is
some satisfaction in doing it differently, because we are different.
I’m terrified
of the crash. I’m afraid of what the holiday that was once my favorite is going
to do to me this year. I’m still trying to think of how to bring Damon into
each ‘celebration.’ I need him there. I need him remembered but I haven’t
figure out how.
The pain of
isolation intensifies as I walk deeper into a life of grief. The knowledge that
only my few friends who grieve their own children don’t grow tired of my
weeping is devastating. So many who I thought were life-long friends have
drifted away. I know I must be exhausting but it is so painful to feel like a
mission rather than a person. To be
abandoned by the people who knew Damon, by the people who stood by his
graveside. It feels like losing a piece of him, again.
Until next
time…
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