Coping

The pain doesn't go away.  It doesn't get smaller.

Instead the way I cope with it has changed a bit.

One Ativan instead of seven.  Or twelve.

I'm not wiping out my car while under the influence of my anti-anxiety meds; I just don't leave my house very much.

I don't shop to distract myself.  I read or binge-watch on Netflix.  Put me in any other world, any other situation but this one.

I don't buy every art supply under the sun; I just rarely make art anymore.

It's cheaper, maybe even healthier at times, but only effective until I pull my head out of the current book or finish up the last episode of the show I'm currently hooked on.  Caught up on Grey's Anatomy.  All done with Orange is the New Black till Season Four.  Racing to the end of House of Cards.

Then what?  Well, then I remember that she's still dead...that Jacob is fourteen and lost to his computer games and that my husband would rather sleep fourteen hours a day than do anything else in the world.

I am alone.  I am still. There is way too much time to think.
 I'm not wrecked on prescription meds and I'm not racking up debt, but I am wracked with guilt.  If only I had went to the store myself.  She would live.

But I didn't, and she died.  The line between those two facts is only too easy to draw.  Is it so surprising that some days I just want to shut it all down?