The closer it gets to her death date, the more enraged I become. Good thing I'm off work right now, because I don't think I'd make good company for anyone. Tim tells me I take my anger out on the happy people and that's it's wrong. I disagree. I can feel however I want. It's not like I'm burning down people's houses or something. My question would be why isn't he jealous of the happy people? Why isn't he burning inside with rage that never quiets?
I so badly wish someone understood where I am. I hate feeling all alone.
Monday, June 29, 2015
Thursday, June 25, 2015
Images
Yesterday, it was Cory in her casket that kept coming up in my mind: her face, her lips pooched out just a little...her arms and hands, so obviously arranged...the way she felt too solid when I touched her waist...
breaking, my heart keeps breaking. She dies every day in my mind.
Last night, it was all dirt and gore by the side of the road, and the people in uniform who walked around, just walked. It's so hard to swallow that nothing at all could be done to help my girl. My heart will never accept the academic reasons that stayed their hands.
The white sheet floating down over her body- that image alone makes me wish to be done with all of this.
Cory, Cory, Cory. I can't believe this happened! I can't believe I let you get hurt. Mommy is so so soooo sorry!
Get hurt? No. I let her DIE. ALONE. Oh my God, the guilt is eating me up inside.
These last few days without the structure of work?
No urge for anything. I've mostly quit eating. I sleep too much. Pills help. I've been trying to hide in my awake time in Netflix marathons, but they always end the same way- my eyes leaving whatever show I'm currently hiding in to look owlishly around my room at the twenty six or so framed photos of my girl.
breaking, my heart keeps breaking. She dies every day in my mind.
Last night, it was all dirt and gore by the side of the road, and the people in uniform who walked around, just walked. It's so hard to swallow that nothing at all could be done to help my girl. My heart will never accept the academic reasons that stayed their hands.
The white sheet floating down over her body- that image alone makes me wish to be done with all of this.
Cory, Cory, Cory. I can't believe this happened! I can't believe I let you get hurt. Mommy is so so soooo sorry!
Get hurt? No. I let her DIE. ALONE. Oh my God, the guilt is eating me up inside.
These last few days without the structure of work?
No urge for anything. I've mostly quit eating. I sleep too much. Pills help. I've been trying to hide in my awake time in Netflix marathons, but they always end the same way- my eyes leaving whatever show I'm currently hiding in to look owlishly around my room at the twenty six or so framed photos of my girl.
Tuesday, June 23, 2015
Bathrobes On Ceremony
A couple of weeks ago, Tim threw a load of towels into the washer, as he often does. Along with them, he put in my bathrobe and Cory's two fluffy bathrobes that hang ceremoniously outside the linen closet, unmoved since her death. I noticed them gone when I climbed in the shower one day, but didn't ask him about them or say anything, a little curious to see what he would do with Cory's bathrobes. The next morning while Jake was getting ready for school, I walked through the living room and noticed Tim patiently unwinding the pom pom ties of her robes that had tangled in the wash. When I got home from work that night, and walked into the bathroom, all three robes were hanging back in their proper places.
This is what I love about this man. He can talk "coping" and "getting through it" all he wants, but in the end, he's no more ready to say good-bye to her than I am.
I asked him some time later if he hung her robes back up to make me happy or because he wasn't ready to take them down, and he answered simply, "I did it because I love her, and I want memories around to make us smile."
This is what I love about this man. He can talk "coping" and "getting through it" all he wants, but in the end, he's no more ready to say good-bye to her than I am.
I asked him some time later if he hung her robes back up to make me happy or because he wasn't ready to take them down, and he answered simply, "I did it because I love her, and I want memories around to make us smile."
Thursday, June 4, 2015
Post Traumatic Bull****
I hate it when the triggers take over. It's one thing to be driving in my car when an ambulance or fire truck goes by, lights flashing and sirens blaring...I can pull over, look down, look away, or even point my car in a different direction.
Today, at work, we were having a community event, and there happened to be an ambulance and firetruck, plus uniformed officer, inside the place. The lights were flashing, and while the sirens weren't blaring inside the building, they certainly were in my head. I could feel my entire body just break into goose flesh. Panic! Panic! Panic! I was instantly back on the side of West Michigan, waiting to be told my daughter was "gone".
What I think I hate most about these triggers and intrusive memories is to everyone else you just look like you're being a big ass baby. Unless a person happened to be right beside me as I ran down the road that day to get to her, only to find her broken, bleeding, and blue, they are never going to get the whole post traumatic thing. Parts of the incident are wholly missing, some out of order, and some so razor sharp in my mind, it could be happening in my living room: like the way her hair covered her face, and her head was flung so far to the side it didn't even seem to be with her body anymore.
Well-meaning people may say that I just have to learn to live with it or learn to cope better. They want the best for me, I'm sure. But what I really wanna say is, I AM!! Aren't you paying attention? I have a therapist, a psychiatrist, and five different medications trying to keep me from being constantly suicidal. I've spent the last ten days or so wanting to eat pesticide. Days like today do not help; they just make my load heavier, and my back feels like it's been broken ten times over as it is.
A friend of mine is right. People are more understanding and compassionate of illnesses they can see on the outside. The inside stuff is harder to understand, and sometimes is made to be a reflection on the person's character or lack of trying to be healthier. That's just not fair.
Today, at work, we were having a community event, and there happened to be an ambulance and firetruck, plus uniformed officer, inside the place. The lights were flashing, and while the sirens weren't blaring inside the building, they certainly were in my head. I could feel my entire body just break into goose flesh. Panic! Panic! Panic! I was instantly back on the side of West Michigan, waiting to be told my daughter was "gone".
What I think I hate most about these triggers and intrusive memories is to everyone else you just look like you're being a big ass baby. Unless a person happened to be right beside me as I ran down the road that day to get to her, only to find her broken, bleeding, and blue, they are never going to get the whole post traumatic thing. Parts of the incident are wholly missing, some out of order, and some so razor sharp in my mind, it could be happening in my living room: like the way her hair covered her face, and her head was flung so far to the side it didn't even seem to be with her body anymore.
Well-meaning people may say that I just have to learn to live with it or learn to cope better. They want the best for me, I'm sure. But what I really wanna say is, I AM!! Aren't you paying attention? I have a therapist, a psychiatrist, and five different medications trying to keep me from being constantly suicidal. I've spent the last ten days or so wanting to eat pesticide. Days like today do not help; they just make my load heavier, and my back feels like it's been broken ten times over as it is.
A friend of mine is right. People are more understanding and compassionate of illnesses they can see on the outside. The inside stuff is harder to understand, and sometimes is made to be a reflection on the person's character or lack of trying to be healthier. That's just not fair.
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