I Don't Wanna!

Jacob told me last night he was so glad we got the kittens after Cory died, "especially this precious girl"  he said, snuggling Violet close to his chest.

"She's helped you a lot, hasn't she?"  I asked.

He nodded, beaming, in response.

So this whole family reorganization process...it's tough.  They say whomever dies in your family leaves behind certain roles that must be filled by you or someone else in order for the family to carry on.  These could be practical roles or emotional ones, but either way, they must be filled in order to regain any semblance of normal or God help us, "new normal".  (Can you tell I absolutely adore the grief lingo?)

[Sidebar here:  I despise the term "anniversary date"  to describe the annual re-occurrence of your loved one's death date.  Anniversaries are supposed to be celebratory, joyous occasions for those who managed to keep their crap together for any amount of time, aren't they?  Cory's death date thus far brings me nothing but anxiety, dread, flashbacks, nightmares, and pain.  Anniversary, my ass.  I googled this to see if a p.c. term has been invented yet.  Ready for this one?

Lifecycle event.

I don't know if that's better or worse.  But I digress.]

Some of Cory's roles have been filled the best we can, and they are obvious to spot.  The kittens are Jake's pseudo siblings and constant companions.  My mom is my new movie buddy and general ride-or-die.

Some roles remain open.  Cory was my helper, my sous chef, the initiator of family activities, the spurrer-on for spontaneous, crazy fun.  She was the one person who made me feel like I could do anything.  She gave me compliments constantly, and encouragement daily.  I have long since figured out that she was my mirror to see all the best things I was or could be.  Now when I look in the mirror, I don't even know who I am or if I'm even really here.

Then there is the friend spot:  we shared the same interests, we had amazing communication, and immense trust, built the old-fashion way:  brick by heavy brick.  Where do you go to find a new nineteen-years-in-the-works relationship like that?  Hell, if I know.

At the same time you are reorganizing your family unit, you're also supposed to form a new identity, create a new relationship with your dead child, work, raise your other children, eat, sleep, and begin to care about things other than your loss.

See why it doesn't take the standard six months?  Or a year?  Or two?  It takes what it takes, folks.  And to anyone who says differently- I'd like to see you try.  I am figuratively speaking, of course; I wouldn't wish this nightmare on anyone.

Form a new identity.  Yeah, I'll get right on that.
I know who I used to be.  Before Cory died, I was silly, funny, a fashionista, an appreciator of designer handbags.  I was attractive.  I was strong.  I was a great mom, and an advocate for what I believed in.

Where do I begin?  It's hard to be fun when your heart has been shattered, the shards poking you in the chest all day long. Attractive?  Ha!  I feel about a thousand years old.  Fashionista?  I care very little about my appearance these days.  I haven't bought a piece of clothing in over a year.
I am a sub-standard parent these days- not because I want to be, but because I am struggling to function, let alone shape another life.

Strong?
Here's a journal entry from last week:  suicide doesn't seem scary at all.  It seems like the softest, warmest blanket I just want to pull down around myself while the lights go out one by one or all at once...anything to get these pictures out of my head.

Dude, I just want off this ride.

As the "life cycle event"  hurtles closer and closer on the calendar, I can't do a thing about it.  Instead, I am trying to control everything and everyone else around me.  I quipped to my husband yesterday, "When are you just going to give over and let me run your life?  I do it better than you do, anyway, and we both know it."  Umm, yeah, that smacks a little of dictator.

I'm also supposed to plan a "remembrance event" for the fifth of July.  All the people out there who haven't lost a child think it's a lovely idea, and some who have lost children and are obviously way more mentally sound than I currently am actually agree.  I am having the worst time with this.  Let off balloons?  Plant a tree?  Why not slap on a sandwich board that says "Cory is Dead" and parade up and down West Michigan?  That's what it feels like to my heart.

I sit here, at the coffee shop, with the pout that every man who hasn't given me what I wanted knows like the back of his hand.  It is called "spoiled brat".

I don't wanna!  I don't want to plan a remembrance for my child's lifecycle event.  I'm STILL not ready for her to be dead.

I will now quietly slither out of my chair onto the carpeted floor in front of Brownstone's patrons and commence kicking and screaming.

I want Cory!!!