Tell the Truth and Shame the Devil

If I ever get myself together enough to turn all this rambling into a book, I vow to make it honest.  It was difficult the first few days when I was surfing the net looking for books on dealing with the loss of a child.  To look for information in print that would help me, prepare me, give me ideas was as automatic as breathing.  I live to read, and to write.  Someone would know how I was feeling, and surely they would have written it down.
Most of the books I found seemed impossibly upbeat for the topic.  There would be a mother, who grieved gracefully, putting a positive spin on tradgedy, moving on to live her life, remembering her child with a smile.

I am not that woman.

I stumble all the time.  And if you want to hear about it in horrid detail, I'll be happy to tell you all about it- in part for your sympathy and support.  Hey, I'm human.  I am drowning here!  A drowning person does not stop to think about who they are asking for help, they just thrust out their hand.  But also, I will tell all, simply to say I hope this never happens to you or anyone you know, but if it does, heads up, folks, the shit piles are here, here, and here.  Mind where you walk.

I will hold nothing back.  Some of it I am ashamed of...but isn't shame how we begin to realize we're doing something wrong?  And if this grief thing isn't a learning experience, than I'm more lost than I even realize.

How about how the first few days after the accident, when  I couldn't bare to look at my ten year old son.  My healthy and loving attachment to him was immediately, and fiercely, overshadowed by the deepest, blackest pain I have ever known.  Who are you, little boy?

How about how I hated- and I mean downright despised- my innocent and wonderfully considerate husband for at least for the first month for no other reason other than he still had his boy.  His mini-me, his pride and joy, the apple of his eye was still alive.  My Girl (always said in my mind in capital letters, because it is a title of utmost importance), my best friend, my true soulmate was gone forever.  In the ground.  Shut off from the sun.  Think about it.
Watching Tim and Jake together, two peas in a pod, brought me no comfort or joy.  It made me want to slit my wrists.  Truly.

How about the conversation I had with my husband on my bed one morning?  I was cocooned in the sheets that needed to be washed, wearing the same nightgown I'd had on for days, my dirty hair in my face, my hipbones visible.  He was sitting in Cory's spot at the end of the bed, at a loss for what to say or how to begin to comfort someone who was beyond comfort and did not want to live.  My brain kept running the day's events, my part, the driver's part, over and over.  I closed my eyes and saw her body crumpled on the road.  My Girl, down.  Siren sounds.  Lights flashing.  Movement from responders, but no real action.
I had made another attempt at the scenario of what had happened, when Tim spoke up in his quiet way, wanting to lay no blame on anyone (wasn't the end result horrible enough?) and suggested maybe Cory had misjudged it, stepped out at the wrong time.  I looked at him.  I stared.  Who's side was he on, anyway?  What the hell, Tim?  I found myself reacting with pure fury and no logic, wanting to put a screwdriver in his ear, and then my own.  Luckily, the most lethal object on my nightstand is a tube of chapstick.

The impulse left; the barely contained rage didn't.  One day I was screaming myself hoarse in the car at no one, just screaming at the top of my lungs, while driving.  I'm sure other drivers thought I had lost my mind.  I had.
Another day I was hitting myself until I bruised.  "Logic did nothing to blunt her great sense of personal failure"- Stephen King.  True dat, Steve.
Then there was the great plate slinging festival of 2012.  That was a damn good time.  I could not get the anger out.  I couldn't.  Eventually, I just grabbed plates out of my cupboard and chucked them as hard as I could against the ceramic tile in my kitchen.  The sound was so satisfying.  For the very first time, I could understand why someone would break things on purpose.  Like I had seen Cory's biological father do so many times; like I had seen her do occasionally.

I might share how one of my coping techniques -shopping- took over, and grew into a live thing that overwhelmed my brain, my closets, and my home.   It started out with the memorial jewelry, but moved onto hats, scarves, coats, and boots.  (All the cozies...keep me warm.  Keep me safe).  And for God's sake, don't ever be caught without chili powder again.  Don't be caught without anything again.  Multiples mean safety. 
That being said, I knew I was getting out of control, when I found myself sleeping with my credit card under my pillow and my I-pad within easy reach, just in case I woke up in the night, couldn't sleep, and needed to buy something.
 This internet shopping was something, all right.  Even on the days, you couldn't pull yourself out of bed because your arms and legs seemed weighted down by bricks, you could still shop, and lovely anonymous people who didn't ever see your unwashed hair and unshaved legs brought pretty things right to your door.  Who thought up this concept?  It's brilliant!

Logical thought had truly departed.  How many different colored pairs of Hunters rainboots does one really need if they don't live in Seattle?

-to be continued-