And here we are again...you and I. If you have a few spare minutes, maybe we can talk about the significance of the calendar and the bird in my chest that is beating itself to a bloody death.
Grief is hard enough, a rigged game, if there ever was one. There is never an end no matter how hard you try to forge one for yourself. Traumas you thought you'd laid gently to rest are all too happy to appear suddenly like the jump scare in a horror movie. They never sleep.
We give so much significance to the special dates in our lives: marriages, birthdays, anniversaries...even the less well known to others are sometimes special to us... the first kiss,the first day he told me loved me, the first day we became exclusive. What comes from these dates? Pride. Joy. Even when the relationship is no longer intact, it brings a bittersweet smile at dreams that were never realized.
So then what about the other end? What about the day she died? What about the day she was buried? Especially, if the one you lost was your child. What is conjured up for you with these dates? Pride and joy? No. And hardly necessary, I feel joy and pride for her every single day.
A long time ago, someone told me we had birthdays all wrong...that the person who was born gets all the recognition, what about the mother who worked so hard to bring him or her into the world? Shouldn't they get a co-starring role, at the least?
So my child died. How responsible do I feel about that? More than I could ever express. It's an unfortunate coincidence that her death-versary occurs in the season of graduations and weddings.. People are posting pics of themselves next to their shiny faced, hopeful children about to embark on careers and create families. What shall I post? Another dozen pictures from my desperate little time capsule where I try to live? Certainly there is nothing about July 5, 2012 that is prideful, shiny, or hopeful.
I hate when July makes its dreaded appearance. It's like walking along trying to stay chill and having someone come around the corner and hit you in the face with a brick. There, that's for you. See what you can do with it.
My mind, craving balance as it does, says if the mom gets a nod for the birthday, what is my responsibility for her death? It doesn't take long before that bird of panic is loose in my chest, ramming into walls and unable to find a way out. I was her mother. I was her legal guardian. And she died. What's the nod of acknowledgement for that? Not good, let me tell you. As I scroll through those graduation and wedding pics some nights, I get the crazed urge to call up one of the parents and ask them how they did it. How did they keep them alive? Cause I thought I was doing all the right things. I thought I was really giving it my all. I even thought I did some extra-credit. So what did they do that I didn't? Please someone solve this puzzle for me cause it's driving me batshit crazy.
And the parties? They are triggers, as well. Not only did Cory never get an open house, or a bridal shower, a wedding or a baby shower, I have to accept that the only large scale party I ever got to throw Cory that recognized her for more than the passing of a single year was her funeral. That's what I got to throw. How fucked up is that? I still have the hard cover journal I used to plan it on a shelf of my nightstand, full of scribbles begging for this not to be true, splattered with tear stains, and heartbreaking notes written to her at four a.m. that she would never read. That is my connection with parties. No wonder I avoid them like the plague.
So here comes July again, brick in hand. I am down. But while I'm down here, I'll write and draw and paint. I'll cry and sleep too much and feel, as I always do, that I should have and could have done something to prevent Cory's death. Most of all, I will be brought back to the sheer panic I felt in and around my heart nearly five years ago when I realized it was not a nightmare and that I would never see her again. She's never coming home.
I know it's no fun to be around someone who is so depressed. And that's okay. All I ask is that you don't try to tell me how I should feel or that it will be ok or how most of my days are good now. My pain is my love for Cory- they are intertwined, like it or not. It will not be ok. It will never be ok. If you find yourself thinking that by now, I should be doing better...just take "by now" out of your vocabulary. There is no by now. And most of my days aren't good. There is good in some of my days, but in EVERY day is an overwhelming and unrelenting pain and longing. I know you love me. And I love you. But you don't have to fix me. You can't fix me. The old me is never coming back. If my smile looks a little fake and my laugh is a little hollow, at least I made an effort. Just be there. Be there even when I'm hard to be around. And I know I am. I know that seeing me in so much pain makes it possible to imagine yourself in my situation which is not something anyone likes to think about. But bear it out. Be there when my ptsd makes me irritable, agitated, and unpredictable. Because it is harder than you think to do this. And it's even harder if you feel alone.
No comments:
Post a Comment