This insomnia can be a time machine and in these last few early morning hours, I've been transported back to sitting on my kitchen floor after being sent away from the scene.
It was involuntary to camp out on my ceramic tile. When you've just been told your child is dead, your legs quite literally give way. But at the same time, I could not be coaxed to come into the living room and sit on the couch or in a chair near the family members that had been arriving in a steady stream since the news had spread. For one, I couldn't stand to meet anyone's eyes. I was still holding out hope that this whole thing was a nightmare, and seeing the pain, sympathy, and horror in someone's gaze would surely rip that possibility away. So I avoided.
Secondly, I had begun, in between the constant reel of the last hour's events and the ricochet images (her fallen body splayed, legs dirty, twisted arm, and blue lips) to piece together the fact that I was responsible for her death. I wanted to face no one with this knowledge, and especially not my mother. What must she think of me now? I was not able to raise children. I let Cory get hurt. I let her get killed!
And lastly, although I could not for the life of me feel the cabinets below the sink behind my back, I was searching for that grounding feeling of something solid against my flesh...something that did not yield, something to stop this incredibly uncomfortable feeling of mental vertigo. The kitchen floor would have to do.
So I sat there and heard "I'm sorry, ma'am, she is gone. I'm sorry, ma'am, she is gone. I'm sorry, ma'am, she is gone..." over and over again until I thought I'd lose my mind.
I can't remember if I cried while I sat there. I know my insides were turned up to a million miles an hour, panic being my number one recognizable feeling. DANGER! DANGER! DANGER!
It seems to me that I didn't cry enough...that inside I was sobbing my heart out over my sweet girl, her posture, her walk, her voice, her smile, but on the outside, my face resembled a stone statue, hard and dry and devoid of emotion. This made me feel like a monster, and I remember relaxing for a split second, suddenly certain I would wake up from this atrocious nightmare. If it were real, I'd be bawling my head off. But then something happened that was indisputable. The officer in charge and the medical examiner paid a visit to my kitchen and in the words that were passed, much of which I can't remember, one of them handed me her wallet and her phone. Her personal effects.
Was it then that I stumbled to the bathroom to throw up? I'm not sure, but I remember being on my knees in front of the toilet retching and seeing colors, finally gaining my feet and hitting myself in the head a couple good ones. Stupid! Stupid! What were you thinking?!! You should never have let her walk to the store!
All those times of locking up the sharps and the meds, taking her to the e.r., making sure she'd taken her meds- they all went up in smoke in front of one lady in a hurry to get home. I had tried so hard and somehow ended up there on the kitchen floor, staring at my tiles realizing perhaps I should mop my floor but not really able to figure out how one goes about doing that. So I just sat and waited for someone to tell me this wasn't really happening. Of course, they never did. Eventually, I had to get to my feet and go somewhere else. And I did. I did. I planned her funeral and when it was over, I wished for death, but somehow remained and put one foot in front of the other.
I've hated most every moment of it, and although sometimes, I think I've made a little progress, there are nights and mornings like this one to put me right back on that kitchen floor, freaking the fuck out. This can't be happening. It just can't be.
Oh, how I wish this could just be a three year long nightmare and I could just wake up.
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