Cory loved Frida Kahlo, as do I. I browsed the internet tonight just to look at some of her paintings, ended up on Amazon looking at book collections of the famous artist, and finally, much to my indignation, discovered there are not only such things as Frida Kahlo stickers out there, but there are also Frida Kahlo paper dolls. What the hell? Does all the cool stuff come out after 2012 or what, people?
This too-late-to-do-my-Cory-Girl-any-good discovery came on the heels of getting yet another piece of mail addressed to her out of my mailbox today. Punch in the stomach, one and two.
The mail to my dead child I can't stop, even when I notify the senders. The stickers and dolls? They will be waiting in the mailbox to comfort the next possible blow in 7-10 business days. Thank you, Amazon.
Sunday, May 29, 2016
Saturday, May 28, 2016
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?
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?
Thursday, May 26, 2016
Play It Again
There are always more tears. Always more.
Sometimes you may think you've learned to control your grief, and that's when it sneaks up on your from behind and puts a sack over your head, drags you off some remote country road, and bends you over something right there in the dirt before leaving you for dead.
Anything can bring it on.
Sirens and uniformed officers work well for me.
The whole distraction thing only goes so far. Be a S.T.A.R. Take a deep breath. In the moment, it works fairly well. Then two days later, while innocently flipping through pictures, you are suddenly bent at the waist sobbing until you can't breathe and start to dry heave.
She is gone. Really gone. No more Cory Girl.
I want to die.
It's been the only solution that offers even a glimmer of hope. That's the really dangerous thing about suicidal thoughts- they are inviting, they are always available, they always come back for you. They never leave you completely alone. An end to pain. An end to the milestones she missed. An end to watching the apparently more deserving folks soak that all in.
Gonna burn in hell anyway since I don't believe in God anymore. Or wait, I guess there'll be no hell to burn in, will there? I haven't quite got my post-Cory's-death belief system worked out yet. Agnostic? Athiest? Beats the hell out of me.
I am weary. I am tired of trying to be ok when I'm not. I'm tired of being a failure at everything I do now that she's gone. I'm tired of hurting all the time. ALL the goddamn time, because even the happy moments are overshadowed by her absence. This whole deeper joy thing the grief books promise is a load of horseshit. I promise you. I do not feel deeper joy because I have lost someone who meant everything to me. I am not living more fully because of my new found relationship with death.
I'm tired of being the complainer. But I won't lie either. It doesn't get easier. It doesn't soften. And the worst part is so few people understand what I mean. Even the people who love me most and try their hardest don't really understand what it means to lose your child.
I realized this fully a few days ago when my mother recalled the day she watched her first daughter to be married back out of her driveway for the last time...the heartbreak, the tears, the very real sorrow. She was devastated. And I'm sure she was. But like...take that and multiply it by a million and you might be in the neighborhood of what it feels like to see your child's coffin lowered into the ground. Maybe.
And this isn't their fault that they don't understand. It just is what is. And so you find yourself alienated from most everyone you know...feeling alone in a familiar crowd, when you aren't busy feeling sick with jealousy, envy, and anger.
Am I supposed to be more empathetic because of my loss? I think I am, but most of the time I can't help myself from following up every person's problem with "yeah, but at least your child isn't dead" in my head. If I can stop myself from saying it aloud, that's a good day. Bet I make a great friend right about now.
Sometimes you may think you've learned to control your grief, and that's when it sneaks up on your from behind and puts a sack over your head, drags you off some remote country road, and bends you over something right there in the dirt before leaving you for dead.
Anything can bring it on.
Sirens and uniformed officers work well for me.
The whole distraction thing only goes so far. Be a S.T.A.R. Take a deep breath. In the moment, it works fairly well. Then two days later, while innocently flipping through pictures, you are suddenly bent at the waist sobbing until you can't breathe and start to dry heave.
She is gone. Really gone. No more Cory Girl.
I want to die.
It's been the only solution that offers even a glimmer of hope. That's the really dangerous thing about suicidal thoughts- they are inviting, they are always available, they always come back for you. They never leave you completely alone. An end to pain. An end to the milestones she missed. An end to watching the apparently more deserving folks soak that all in.
Gonna burn in hell anyway since I don't believe in God anymore. Or wait, I guess there'll be no hell to burn in, will there? I haven't quite got my post-Cory's-death belief system worked out yet. Agnostic? Athiest? Beats the hell out of me.
I am weary. I am tired of trying to be ok when I'm not. I'm tired of being a failure at everything I do now that she's gone. I'm tired of hurting all the time. ALL the goddamn time, because even the happy moments are overshadowed by her absence. This whole deeper joy thing the grief books promise is a load of horseshit. I promise you. I do not feel deeper joy because I have lost someone who meant everything to me. I am not living more fully because of my new found relationship with death.
I'm tired of being the complainer. But I won't lie either. It doesn't get easier. It doesn't soften. And the worst part is so few people understand what I mean. Even the people who love me most and try their hardest don't really understand what it means to lose your child.
I realized this fully a few days ago when my mother recalled the day she watched her first daughter to be married back out of her driveway for the last time...the heartbreak, the tears, the very real sorrow. She was devastated. And I'm sure she was. But like...take that and multiply it by a million and you might be in the neighborhood of what it feels like to see your child's coffin lowered into the ground. Maybe.
And this isn't their fault that they don't understand. It just is what is. And so you find yourself alienated from most everyone you know...feeling alone in a familiar crowd, when you aren't busy feeling sick with jealousy, envy, and anger.
Am I supposed to be more empathetic because of my loss? I think I am, but most of the time I can't help myself from following up every person's problem with "yeah, but at least your child isn't dead" in my head. If I can stop myself from saying it aloud, that's a good day. Bet I make a great friend right about now.
Friday, May 20, 2016
Hobby Lobby
If Michael's arts and crafts store is my place, then Hobby Lobby was Cory's. So sometimes when I am missing her unbearably, I go there just to walk through the aisles and remember her. I went there yesterday.
I could see the ghost of her next to me in front of the candy colored tubes of acrylic paint...excited to be buying art supplies, eyes bright with possibilities. If I remember correctly, they used to run about four bucks a pop, so I'll tell her to pick out five. Five were never enough, and maybe because I didn't make art at that time, I didn't realize how difficult a task it was to narrow down all those glorious colors to a mere handful. Why didn't I buy her a cartful? What kind of mother was I?
The tears begin, and through them, I spy a few of her favorite colors, touch them, needing some type of confirmation that yes, she did once exist, yes, we did come here together all the time, laughing and talking. Think of the good times...cherish those memories. Isn't that the trite advice given by people who aren't in this situation, safe to dole out stupid one liners that they will never fully understand? It's such crap because placing yourself back there often burns even more. Never again? Never???
Then you begin to beat yourself up for stupid shit like not buying your child two hundred dollars worth of acrylic paint at a time. I was furious with myself about this. How could I have limited her creativity? Limited her experience? Especially considering that she only had a short time to develop as an artist. There were only so many trips to Hobby Lobby in her future. There was only so much time left to paint. Only so many canvases left to fill.
Speaking of canvases, I turned the corner and wandered towards that aisle. I took one peek down there and fled in shame. She'd always wanted a truly gigantic canvas and I'd dragged my feet, letting her practice first on a great succession of 8 x 10s, 11 x 14s, even 16 x 20s...but never took the plunge on that cover-the-wall-behind-your-couch-fully sized canvas. Now it's too late. No dainty earrings for her and no wall encompassing paintings. Failed her.
I escaped into an aisle of scrapbook stickers, and let me just share that those can be pretty damn depressing. You wouldn't really figure stickers to prompt sorrow, but they are milestone heavy: graduation, wedding, baby, family vacations. It's enough to make a bereaved mother want to just lay down and give up.
There really aren't a lot of scrap booking/art journaling materials out there to honor grief, the passing a loved one, or any type of sad occasion. This is why I was so ridiculously excited to come across some Day of the Dead stickers at an expo with my friend a few weeks ago. Finally, someone has acknowledged that my loved one died.
Of course, that's pretty much the only item I've ever seen of the sort, so I will continue to take my sad selfies and draw my "grief girls" as an artist friend of mine calls my drawings. Someone needs to illustrate this experience- why should only the happy occasions get playtime? I struggle to feel it at all.
Finally, after walking past the sketching pencils and feeling my heart sort of turn in on itself, as I remembered a certain Christmas that consisted of art supplies and squeals of joy, I could take no more. Having gained no real comfort in walking the aisles-,just reminders of what I'd lost, I made for the door.
On the way out, I stopped at a display of journals, and paused, my eyes having landed on a little girl style of journal with a cat on the front and a feathered pen. I picked it up and transported myself back in time to Limited Too at the Kalamazoo mall with a eight or nine year old Cory Girl. There was a nightgown/diary set, pale yellow background with a popcorn print. She had to have it, and I couldn't have been more delighted to give it to her. She was adorable in that little spaghetti strapped popcorn nightgown, and I can still see her blonde head bent studiously over the popcorn diary (which had a matching pen and was, indeed, scratch and sniff). My heart leapt in my chest to see her recording her thoughts and impressions so seriously...she likes to write, she's going to be a writer just like me!
That memory while I stood in the aisle of Hobby Lobby with that stupid cat journal in my hands was so crisp and so clear. She was close enough to touch...and completely unreachable. Someone might as well punch their way through my chest cavity, grab up my heart, and pull it right out of my body.
I put the journal down, tears still streaming, and ran to my car in the parking lot where I could sob in private.
Four years in July. This is still my day to day life. It hasn't gotten better. It hasn't gotten easier. The people who say it will? Full of crap.
I could see the ghost of her next to me in front of the candy colored tubes of acrylic paint...excited to be buying art supplies, eyes bright with possibilities. If I remember correctly, they used to run about four bucks a pop, so I'll tell her to pick out five. Five were never enough, and maybe because I didn't make art at that time, I didn't realize how difficult a task it was to narrow down all those glorious colors to a mere handful. Why didn't I buy her a cartful? What kind of mother was I?
The tears begin, and through them, I spy a few of her favorite colors, touch them, needing some type of confirmation that yes, she did once exist, yes, we did come here together all the time, laughing and talking. Think of the good times...cherish those memories. Isn't that the trite advice given by people who aren't in this situation, safe to dole out stupid one liners that they will never fully understand? It's such crap because placing yourself back there often burns even more. Never again? Never???
Then you begin to beat yourself up for stupid shit like not buying your child two hundred dollars worth of acrylic paint at a time. I was furious with myself about this. How could I have limited her creativity? Limited her experience? Especially considering that she only had a short time to develop as an artist. There were only so many trips to Hobby Lobby in her future. There was only so much time left to paint. Only so many canvases left to fill.
Speaking of canvases, I turned the corner and wandered towards that aisle. I took one peek down there and fled in shame. She'd always wanted a truly gigantic canvas and I'd dragged my feet, letting her practice first on a great succession of 8 x 10s, 11 x 14s, even 16 x 20s...but never took the plunge on that cover-the-wall-behind-your-couch-fully sized canvas. Now it's too late. No dainty earrings for her and no wall encompassing paintings. Failed her.
I escaped into an aisle of scrapbook stickers, and let me just share that those can be pretty damn depressing. You wouldn't really figure stickers to prompt sorrow, but they are milestone heavy: graduation, wedding, baby, family vacations. It's enough to make a bereaved mother want to just lay down and give up.
There really aren't a lot of scrap booking/art journaling materials out there to honor grief, the passing a loved one, or any type of sad occasion. This is why I was so ridiculously excited to come across some Day of the Dead stickers at an expo with my friend a few weeks ago. Finally, someone has acknowledged that my loved one died.
Of course, that's pretty much the only item I've ever seen of the sort, so I will continue to take my sad selfies and draw my "grief girls" as an artist friend of mine calls my drawings. Someone needs to illustrate this experience- why should only the happy occasions get playtime? I struggle to feel it at all.
Finally, after walking past the sketching pencils and feeling my heart sort of turn in on itself, as I remembered a certain Christmas that consisted of art supplies and squeals of joy, I could take no more. Having gained no real comfort in walking the aisles-,just reminders of what I'd lost, I made for the door.
On the way out, I stopped at a display of journals, and paused, my eyes having landed on a little girl style of journal with a cat on the front and a feathered pen. I picked it up and transported myself back in time to Limited Too at the Kalamazoo mall with a eight or nine year old Cory Girl. There was a nightgown/diary set, pale yellow background with a popcorn print. She had to have it, and I couldn't have been more delighted to give it to her. She was adorable in that little spaghetti strapped popcorn nightgown, and I can still see her blonde head bent studiously over the popcorn diary (which had a matching pen and was, indeed, scratch and sniff). My heart leapt in my chest to see her recording her thoughts and impressions so seriously...she likes to write, she's going to be a writer just like me!
That memory while I stood in the aisle of Hobby Lobby with that stupid cat journal in my hands was so crisp and so clear. She was close enough to touch...and completely unreachable. Someone might as well punch their way through my chest cavity, grab up my heart, and pull it right out of my body.
I put the journal down, tears still streaming, and ran to my car in the parking lot where I could sob in private.
Four years in July. This is still my day to day life. It hasn't gotten better. It hasn't gotten easier. The people who say it will? Full of crap.
Saturday, May 14, 2016
Michael's Run
What makes me feel better? Buying things.
This is how I found myself in Michael's craft store, on my lunch break the other day, tears streaming hot and relentless down my face, in front of the scrapbook wedding stickers.
Damn it, I want to buy my girl a wedding dress, too! Not fair! Not fair!!
Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know I still have Jake, and he may get married someday, assuming he doesn't die, too. But, it's not the same! It will never be the same for the following obvious reasons: he is not a girl, he is not my firstborn, he was not my child while I was still essentially a child myself (which ideal or not creates an undeniable bond), he will not wear a dress, he will not want my help with his hair.
When Cory was little, I always got to tie the sash of her dresses, and make the bow even. I wanted to tie her sash...or button her buttons...something.
I wanted to fuss over my adult child's hair one last time before a major public event- and let me tell you, I didn't expect that last time to be while she laid in her casket. Oh, my fricking heart.
I wanted to spin her around a bit and watch her dress flair out, laughing and misty eyed to tell her she was the most beautiful bride I'd ever seen. I wanted it to hurt to see her looking so grown up. I wanted my voice to shake as I told her I loved her 100 baker dollars.
People plan weddings and I go pull weeds at her plot. I will never understand it.
I carried my little sticker wedding gown up to the counter and ponied up two dollars and ninety nine cents, knowing it wasn't exactly her style, but the best from what I had to choose from. I could feel my heart in my throat and I took it out to my car to moon over in private, angry and heartbroken by turns.
Never did I expect things to turn out this way. This deafening silence. This bitter envy. Nary a skirt twirl in sight.
This is how I found myself in Michael's craft store, on my lunch break the other day, tears streaming hot and relentless down my face, in front of the scrapbook wedding stickers.
Damn it, I want to buy my girl a wedding dress, too! Not fair! Not fair!!
Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know I still have Jake, and he may get married someday, assuming he doesn't die, too. But, it's not the same! It will never be the same for the following obvious reasons: he is not a girl, he is not my firstborn, he was not my child while I was still essentially a child myself (which ideal or not creates an undeniable bond), he will not wear a dress, he will not want my help with his hair.
When Cory was little, I always got to tie the sash of her dresses, and make the bow even. I wanted to tie her sash...or button her buttons...something.
I wanted to fuss over my adult child's hair one last time before a major public event- and let me tell you, I didn't expect that last time to be while she laid in her casket. Oh, my fricking heart.
I wanted to spin her around a bit and watch her dress flair out, laughing and misty eyed to tell her she was the most beautiful bride I'd ever seen. I wanted it to hurt to see her looking so grown up. I wanted my voice to shake as I told her I loved her 100 baker dollars.
People plan weddings and I go pull weeds at her plot. I will never understand it.
I carried my little sticker wedding gown up to the counter and ponied up two dollars and ninety nine cents, knowing it wasn't exactly her style, but the best from what I had to choose from. I could feel my heart in my throat and I took it out to my car to moon over in private, angry and heartbroken by turns.
Never did I expect things to turn out this way. This deafening silence. This bitter envy. Nary a skirt twirl in sight.
Thursday, May 5, 2016
Someone Else's Words
Someone else's words tonight...
"tears stream down your face
when you lose something
you cannot replace..."
- Coldplay
"tears stream down your face
when you lose something
you cannot replace..."
- Coldplay
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