Game Day

There was no Cory here tonight to pass out silly hats and noisemakers from the dollar store.  We didn't pile onto the couch to watch the ball drop in Times Square on tv.  I avoid my living room like the plague...still.  New Year's Eve has lost any marginal appeal it once had because now starting each new year means entering another year without my Cory Girl.

Or does it?

I made breakfast for dinner for the boys tonight and after we ate, we sat down to play board games for a bit.  Jake's job was to get the game ready as I finished up the dishes and Tim saw to the puppy.  Jake handed me some used score sheets he found inside the box from years gone by, a couple of which were in Cory's handwriting, and made my heart skip a beat:  Team J & C (Jacob and Cory) versus Team M & D (Mom and Dad).

It is complete and utter joy to find this sort of proof that she was here, that she was real.  I suspect every bereaved parent out there knows just what I mean.  I ran my fingers over her writing, and sat the sheets aside to tape into my journal.

When we switched out games a bit later, Tim came up from the basement with a bit longer face than when he headed down to choose another game.  When asked, he said, "Well, I saw the Candyland game down there with the others and all I could think about was all the times me and Cory played that when she was little, and how she always had to be Queen Frostine.  Every time.  Queen Frostine."

I couldn't even look at him.  Once I saw his eyes were full of tears, I had to put my head down.  Sometimes I forget how much he is hurting, too.  You see, he wasn't there for every moment, and I give him a lot of grief for the four years we were separated that he chose not to take Cory on the weekends...a LOT of grief, but...

 Queen Frostine.  I think I'll shut up now.  He may have missed what he missed, but there is no other man out there who  played CandyLand with my girl.

Those Who Can't...

So...

I will try to see the beauty, as well as honor my pain.

I saw some baby bump pics the other day of one of Cory's best friends since kindergarten.  The joy for her was genuine, but I did think about how Cory will never sport a baby bump and it nearly swallowed me whole.

This morning, I had this thought:  when you can't do something, the expression is often, "I'll live vicariously through you."  How lucky am I to be close enough to Cory's childhood friends to be able to witness their life's milestones?  It is better to be able to watch these young ladies grow older than bury myself in bitterness.  And the thing about Cory was that although she was sometimes jealous of the normalcy of others' lives, she was kind enough and strong enough to still be happy for them.  I so much want to be like her.  She was such an incredible person.

Better Now

I left the house yesterday, and I immediately felt a little better.  Last night, Jake and I made a mad dash for supplies for the upcoming ice storm, and I was able to stop thinking about Cory long enough to enjoy the quiet sarcasm and quick wit he offers only to the people who make him feel safe.  Ever the thirteen-nearly-fourteen year old boy, he surreptitiously left his coat in the car and thrust his chin in the air just the slightest when I called him on it.  "Are you being defiant, Mr. Mansfield?"  I giggled.
"Maybe."  he grinned.

"Oh God, and so it begins."  I replied.

And so it has.  I cannot- CANNOT- miss his adolescence because of my grief.  I have to enjoy every moment because even if he lives, as Cory did not, he will be gone from under my wing all too soon.

Once inside Family Fare, he silently began to fill the cart with every type of donut he could locate...just to be safe, in case we get snowed in.  I would silently put the junk food back on the shelf, turn around to grab some veggies, and the chocolate covered donettes would be back in the cart, carefully hidden under the fruit tray.

He makes me smile.  Every day.

Pop has been outlawed.  I will allow it for occasional treats, such as eating out, but have refused to supply it in the home.  Jacob raised an eyebrow to this blustering of parental authority, and said, "Dad will supply me." with a tiny grin.

Oh dear.

So the thing to recognize here is that this year, I made it (albeit medicated) to the family Christmas dinner:  a new frontier.  And although the day after Christmas was hellish in nature, my body full of all the aches and pains of finally releasing the muscles that had held their tension since around November 1st in anticipation of the blasted holiday season, today is a lot better.  My recovery time from these "difficult times of the year" is improving, isn't it?

I do feel better. I feel it in my bones, the way Cory wrote in her journal during her first hospitalization:  "I'm better now.  I can feel it in my bones."  I was able to get this piece of her handwriting made into a necklace and it is the most treasured of all my memorial jewelry.  Words mean everything to me.  Handwriting is a person's mark on the world.  Her bravery is inspiring.

If she can muster some optimism with all she faced, surely I can make an effort.

I have to live without her.  She had to live with monsters I'll never fully understand.

She was a brave girl.  And one thing I know for sure is that she'd want to see me be brave, too.

Day After

It's the day after Christmas, and again this year, like a fool, I thought I'd feel better if the day was just over.  But I don't feel better.  She's still dead.  I'm still here.  

I barely left my bed today, and never got dressed at all.  The tree will be a snap to put away since it had almost no decorations on it, so there's that.  Still, I struggled to fold and put away a basket of clean clothes.  I alternate between feeling like I'm going to throw up and wanting to throw the nearest thing at hand.

When I feel particularly low, the way I do today, I can't stand the sound of my own voice.  It makes me hate myself even more than I already do, so don't take it personally if I don't pick up the phone or if I cut our conversation short.   I'll text, but it's an effort.

All the therapy, all the meds, all the talks with friends and family...and I'll tell you a secret if you promise not to get mad at me:

I still feel responsible.  I'm beginning to suspect I always will.  

Shoulda

No one understands the seething anger.  My husband thinks it's about him.  Sometimes I get confused and think it's about my job.  Some people think I'm just being a big baby and should learn to accept what can't be changed and go make sandwiches like normal people, you know, smiling all the time, and shit.  Fuck those people.

Nope.  It's none of those things.  It's that she got hurt, badly, horribly, disjointedly hurt and taken on my watch.  On my watch.

All these stupid holiday grab fests offer bitter reminders of what I had and what I'll never have again.  She'll never show up with her hair in a messy bun and mismatched socks looking like an angel.  We will never be side by side at the counter with flour on our faces rolling out homemade pie crust like a commercial or burping babies on our shoulders after the big meal.  That is all gone.  I can see it, like those pictures I've never seen before that keep popping up, but I'll never touch those daydreams.

Other people get to survive.  Other people get second chances.  They get babies.  They get lives.

She rests in a long, dark hole, with her broken bones arranged just so.
I should have died with her.

Too Many Sirens

The flashbacks bring back the horror of what I saw, but they also bring back that out of control, helpless feeling.  There is no worse feeling than being unable to help your child, except maybe the realization that the people who know how to help her aren't helping her, either.  She laid there, facedown, twisted and slumped while they walked around.  It seemed like an hour went by before they finally turned her over, two of them working together at the task, so slowly, so carefully, maybe even reverently, revealing her face an inch at a time, and when I saw her lips were blue, my mind just failed.  That moment.  I've been living it all weekend.

"Paddles!  Get the paddles!"  I wanted to scream.  I wanted to direct.  I wanted to boss them around. I wanted to get them in motion, for God's sake, someone had to, but I couldn't seem to speak.  I could hear someone screaming and it took the longest time to realize that was me.

 Back then, on the scene, I didn't understand why they weren't doing anything and my confusion slowly, over a period of months, developed into fury.  Now, I know- intellectually, at least- that nothing could be done.  Somehow, the fury remains.

The man told me the six words no mother ever wants to hear, and then I fell down- to my knees, then to my face.   In every movie I've watched, the mother screams up at the sky so you'd think there has to be someone in charge up there who could do something in such a situation, but sadly, no.

Thank goodness for smartphones because fine motor truly does go out the window during trauma and I couldn't dial my mother's number for anything.  Or even remember it.  Someone else took care of that.
My parents were there within minutes and once I saw my horror reflected on my dear mother's face, it began to be true.  I didn't wake up.  No one woke me up.  They still haven't.  Maybe that makes me angry, too. What good is anyone who claims to love you if they can't wake you from a nightmare?

Time marched on.  All the way to three years, five months, and nine days.  Some people say I'm not doing very well, haven't made much progress.  To that, I say, I'm alive.  I don't really want to be.  But I am, and that's way more than I thought I'd be able to accomplish that day after he told me she was gone.  I just wanted to die, too.

Getting to Know Post Traumatic Stress Disorder

Web MD's suggestions to cope with rage and anger from PTSD are:

• Talk with someone you trust.
• Write down your feelings. It may help to make a list of things that are bothering you. Decide which things you can change, and how you can change them.
• Exercise, draw, paint, or listen to music to release the anger.

I cannot remember the last time I was so full of rage.  I feel like that girl on Firestarter by Stephen King- if I don't hurry up and order this shit to "Back off!  Back off!", it's just going to burn me up right where I stand. On the other hand, there's a thought...

I've tried to talking to a few people, and I'm sure those are super pleasant conversations for the receivers of my discontent.

Writing I can do.  I do it everyday.  Making a list of things that bother me?  Well, that's pretty short.  And being asked what's wrong is something that sets that hair across my ass just right and plumffff!  the inferno goes up with the drop of that particular match.  What's wrong?  Are you fucking kidding me?  

She's dead.  She's still dead.  And she's always going to be dead.
Does anything else even matter?????????????????  Isn't that enough?

Can I change it?  No.  So here I am, painting and listening to music and feeling no less like running into the streets screaming at strangers.  Rage?  Show me the driver. Show me her father.  Show me anyone who slighted her in any way.

Show me the mirror.  I haven't looked in one all weekend cause I know what will happen if I do.

Unstable

At Buffalo Wild Wings with the boys the other day and that Pink song came on about being perfect.  I began sobbing at the table and had to be prompted by Tim to take my hysterics to the bathroom where people weren't trying to eat.

Tonight, I rambled through my kitchen cupboards hunting for a plate I could break and wouldn't miss.  The rage is relentless.  I wanted so badly to destroy..to wreck...to break something that was once whole and functioning... to hear the plate break against the ceremic tile, to see the pieces scatter...big pieces, jagged pieces, small pieces, shards too thin to even pick up properly.

There, people who think they know just what they'd do, glue that shit back together.  Tell me how long it takes you and tell me if it's a plate you wanna eat off after your done.

Half-Empty?

Pissed off all day.  Wanted to scream and break stuff.  It started when I opened my eyes- anxious because Tim had slept past his alarm again, but the anxiety never stopped or even slowed over the course of the day.  It just got worse.  By noon, I had the urge to jump in my car and take a drive so I could scream without anyone hearing me.  I felt like I could knock down walls.  Hurt people.  At least one.  Maybe two.

What was I so angry about?  Anything.  Everything.  But really just the same one thing.  She's dead.

It's not fair what happened to her!  I hate it.  I hate what I saw.  I hate what she surely felt, even if it was only for one searing, white-hot, confusing instant. I hate that I wasn't there, that she was ALONE.

 I hate that I can't muster even a shred of excitement for the stupid holidays.  Ruined.  Everything is ruined.  Her chair will always be empty.  Why do I have the feeling the holiday season will always be something to get through, never to enjoy?  Am I a pessimist or am I a realist?

Pessimism?  Pshaw!  You say the glass is half-full.  I don't say it's half-empty.  I say, "what fucking glass?"

It's the Little Things

When it first happens, you are overwhelmed and all the experiences you are being cheated out of having with your child come in large scale form:  their graduation(s), their wedding, the birth of their child(ren), their loving face looming over yours on your death bed.  That is the way it was supposed to go after all.
When the shock passes, and especially if you've already missed some milestones with your child due to chronic mental illness, the stepping stones you have also missed come to mind:  watching your child learn to drive, seeing your child get their first part-time job, holding your child against your chest as they nurse their first adult broken heart.
And then once years have gone by, there can be confusion on just what to feel, like this:

feeling strangely guilty when asked how long its been since your child has died.  Saying, or what feels like admitting, it's been nearly three and a half years is sometimes hard to reconcile with your lack of ability to function.  Shouldn't you be doing a little bit better by now?  That's what it feels like when you register that look of surprise on someone's face who must've thought it had happened a few months ago...why else would this girl be such a fricking wreck?

feeling pulled back into the abyss when running into someone in the community who didn't know your child had died and asked casually after your "kids".  Explaining with a dry face and no details of the accident may feel like you've cut a cord with your child, but trust me when I say you won't make it more than two hours inside your house before becoming a complete and sobbing mess.

In the thick of acceptance, the little moments plague your heart the most.  Will you really never watch another movie with her?  Touch her hand?  Ever?

Visual Cues

Maybe these are more for me than anyone else who may read them, but I still thought I'd share where my head is tonight or rather where I'd like it to be:


Accident:

an unplanned and unfortunate event that results in damage, injury, or upset of some kind.

the way things happen without any planning, apparent cause, or deliberate intent.

What happened to Cory was an accident.


My thought:  I shouldn't have let Cory walk to the store.

Fact:  It was a reasonable decision.

My thought:  I was selfish to allow Cory to go to the store that day.

Fact:  Cory was getting exercise, self-esteem, socialization, and independence out of this simple errand.

My thought (ALL THE TIME):  I made a bad decision on July 5th, 2012.  Nothing else I did matters.

Fact:  It was a sound decision.  I made many other good decisions for Cory that helped her and kept her safe.

Guilt:

a feeling of worry or unhappiness that one has because one has done something wrong, such as causing harm to another person.

Fact:  I did not harm Cory.

Putting these babies in my bag and taking them with me tomorrow.  I won't have time to read them at work, but I will know they are there when my brain "starts being unkind" to me, as my Miss Angie would say.

Driving Mr. Winston

Jake and I took Winston for a quick car ride today.  Jake turned his eyes to mine as we pulled in the drive, and said, "Man, Mom, I think he likes you better than me.  He always wants to ride in your lap."

"No, I don't think so.  I think he just wants to be with the driver.  I know, let's trade seats and see if he wants to sit with you if you're in the driver's seat."

"Okay!"  he smiled, willing to indulge my little social experiment.

We switched seats and I passed Winston over, paying less attention to him in Jake's lap than the fact that Jake actually seemed to sort of fit in that driver's seat, and surely that couldn't be right?  He noticed this, too, throwing his little shoulders back a little and sitting up tall in his seat.  He gripped the wheel and said, "Hey, this doesn't feel too bad!"  My heart skipped a beat to picture him driving, then skipped another because Cory never got to.  She never got to, and now she wasn't here to see her little brother getting ready for his turn to drive, to grow up, to just be.

I pretended not to notice as Winston stealthily made his way back to my lap.

"See, Mom!" he said, grinning, but obviously disappointed.

"He loves us both."  I said.

"Yeah, he does."  he agreed.

The three of us sat in the car for a moment, silent.  I couldn't help but wonder why Cory couldn't be with us to share it.