Still here. I've been sick, and suffering from the worst of ailments: writer's block. I have again reached that point where I really don't know what else to say.
In a way, I hate to be the person who begins to repeat themselves- that's a hint, babe, just stop already. But realistically, I have to put it out there: that is the hell of this thing. It never stops. If grief were some wretched creature like the girl from The Ring 2, you could describe it this way, "She never sleeps."
Grief is watchful, and will not be ignored. Sometimes I feel like it is vengeful, because just when you have ten minutes pass feeling like maybe you can do this, your thoughts running along this vein, "I loved her with my soul, she knew it, and she loved me the same. I can do this.", you are hit with a sense of despair so great, you literally lose your breath. Anything can bring this: the smell of restaurant potato soup shared over so many Mommy/Cory days, a movie trailer that she would've loved but will never get to see, a funny moment no one else will understand- and so sits dormant in your heart- so much wasted joy.
Today, I am going to see the remake of Carrie with my mom. She is my new movie buddy. Spending the day with her is fun, and always comforting. It is hilarious to realize that I got my love of scary movies from my mother, which I passed down to Cory. When Cory's illness began, I tried to cut down on them, but she would say quite reasonably, "Really, Mom, if you think about it, there's nothing on those screens that could worse than what I already deal with every day. Can I just have some fun being scared for a change?"
So today, I am excited to see this remake, holding high hopes for it, but at the same time, angry as always, that Cory won't get to be there, sitting at my right side.
The first time I went to a movie after her death, I took her hoodie with me, and sort of propped it up against the seat next to me. Crazy? Morbid? I don't know. I don't do that anymore, but I do try to keep that seat open if possible, setting my jacket and purse there for her to hold. And no matter how into the movie I get, I find myself turning to that empty space during the moving bits. Cory was my favorite person in the world to watch a movie with- seeing her reaction, or sharing our reactions was the best part of the whole business. I miss it still, and always will. My neck is permanently trained to turn to the right and search for the expression on her face. Muscle memory is a bitch.
Repetition is a given. My heart, brain, and body are full of her memories. They come up without even being called. With them comes the pain of her absence, and sometimes a smile or a giggle. Dr. Z said on my last visit that the goal is to concentrate less on the pain of her absence and more on the precious memories. I guess I'm not there yet, because for now, they still come hand in hand, a set of conjoined twins who couldn't imagine life without each other, yet yearn for some autonomy.
To separate them will be to push a part of her away, and I'm just not ready to do that yet. For now, I will suffer if it means I can hold on just a little longer.
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