No big surprises here. I had a wretched weekend. I missed my girl so much, I literally couldn't get out of bed. I just lay there, trapped under a heavy blanket of pain, feeling weak and wanting nothing- not food, not coffee, not human interaction, not reading, writing, or painting. Not even shopping could get me vertical. It was pretty bad.
Which came first- the broken sleep or the flashbacks? It's hard to say, but before you could say PTSD, my anxiety had worked my stomach into an unpredictable mess, ready to turn traitor at any moment, which it soon did.
It's funny how quickly my thoughts change, starting out fairly benign (I miss Cory), turning into a vivid recollection of finding her splayed out on the road, blood thick and black, legs dirty, hair covering part of her face, and then steadily twisting into guilt and shame. Even the guilt and shame have levels, I have discovered. Hours and hours spent floating between sleeping and laying awake hollow eyed and miserable provided me with a birds eye view of every variation. I remember thinking I'd give anything for one more Mommy/Cory day, and hating myself for putting my stupid schoolwork ahead of time with her. I could've had that day...maybe even a handful of them.
"Cory, I will watch a show with you, but then I have to go work on my paper." No matter how she begged when the show was over, I'd flee to my nest of books and papers in my bedroom. I was so eager to get that "A", so determined to show her it didn't matter how long it takes to finish something, as long as you keep working towards it. And what did I really prove to her? That she wasn't as important as a college class?
From this line of thinking, I forged head long into this: if I hadn't been taking a class in the first place, I'd have been home that night- home with my kids, home with her. And just around the bend in my troubled mind and heart, was this whisper, "Maybe he's right. Maybe you did kill her."
Such a heavy sigh. What have I done? How could I be so stupid? So irresponsible?
Hot tears then- because out of all the hard decisions I've ever made, choosing to have Cory at nineteen was the best thing I've ever done, and my one true purpose has always been to do right by her. Keeping her safe and happy has been the biggest part of my life. And underneath all my "growth" and my "progress" in this stupid Godforsaken grief journey, I still feel like a complete and utter failure. I let her walk to the store. What a dumb ass. All those years of care, of love, of laughter and tears- all the difficult decisions, the doctor visits, the hospitalizations, the meds...it all came down to a two second decision...and just like that, I screwed it all up in the end. I chose wrong, and I lost her. She suffered...I try to keep the "she died instantly" verdict at the forefront of my mind, but it doesn't match the pictures in my head. Those pictures say she suffered plenty. You can't end up looking like that without it hurting. A lot. I broke her. Do you understand? I broke my baby!
Back and forth to the toilet I ran- Saturday, Sunday, and a good part of Monday. Each time I laid down on my bed again, feeling clammy, sweaty, and sick, I recognized the emotion overriding it all: terror. You'd think that scared feeling I remember so well from the first few days after the accident would be old news by now, but it's back.
The idea of living without her terrifies me. I know I've been doing it for awhile now, but I hate it. To realize this is all I have to look forward to brings me right back to day one, but with some hard-earned perspective. And I can't lie. It's every bit as awful as I knew it would be.
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