Dear Cory,

I have been writing in some form or another since the accident happened.  I come here to share my experiences, but I also keep a little back to myself (I know, I know...it seemed like I told it all, even when it was too much information).  My medium has changed a little, going from the lined journals to Moleskine sketchbooks, to the gigantic Moleskine watercolor that I now tote around town. 

Art showed up somewhere in the middle, on a night when I was lost and scared- basically just afraid I would lose my mind if I hadn't already, or that I might just take myself out of this nightmare, once and for all.  I remember googling "art journaling" out of nowhere, like maybe Cory had whispered in my ear. 

A few months later, if I'm awake and not bound to some other responsibility, I am drawing or painting or both.  I have found that my writing and my art take turns holding me up.  When I start to get writer's block, which used to drive me absolutely bat shit crazy, I take up with my paints.  There are some feelings, indeed, that have no words.  These feelings demand color, texture, and images in order to be seen, heard, and felt.  However it can be accomplished, these dark feelings must be released or they will eat away your insides like a particularly aggressive kind of cancer. 

Alternately, when I am trying to create something, art-wise, and finding I am horribly inadequate for my endeavors, I can take solace with my laptop.  Writing is something I have done for a long time, it is comfortable and easy, almost organic.  I put my hands on the keyboard and the words just come shooting out.  If I have a really good idea to write about, it can sit and simmer for a couple days, but at a critical point, I feel an urgency to capture it on paper, almost like some bizarre sort of mental labor pains. 

Not only do these two activities keep my brain busy, and help me process, they are remarkably more affordable than all the mass shopping I did last year.  This is good, not only for my credit score and bank account, but also for my self esteem.  When I am writing or painting, I am making something, where once there was nothing.  I am giving something.  I am sharing something, and in doing so, possibly helping someone.   Maybe I am not the worthless thirty nine year old woman who let her firstborn be run over in the road like a chipmunk.  Just maybe.

I went through some of my older journals today, and stumbled upon a letter I wrote to Cory four months ago.  This is what it said:

Dear Cory,

I miss you so much; it is hard to get my breath.  You were my very best friend.  No one can ever take your place.  Cory, I am so very sorry I didn't go to the store myself.  It was too hot and I was being lazy.  I didn't think for one moment that you could get hurt.  I've always thought you to be a strong and brave girl, but now I can't even believe how you kept going day after day, with that beautiful smile.  I just want to kiss your face.  And talk to you for five more minutes.  Just five.  You are my heart.

Love,
Mommy

And an entry a few days later:

"I guess I'm supposed to think of how she is no longer in pain, but instead I am typically selfish.  I only want to KISS HER FACE.  I am drowning!  This senseless, grinding ache is pushing me into the ground."

Gosh, it's been about five months since I wrote those words, and not a lot seems to have changed.  My breaths are still shallow most of the time, and I despise watching my chest rise and fall when hers is so much dust by now.

 I need to paint.