My husband asked me today why I called into work, or rather drove home from work about ten minutes after I got there. If I had not been so tired, I would've cocked my hip and raised my eyebrow and waited for him to figure it out while I got good and mad because he didn't already know. But I was exhausted so I just said, "Cause I feel like crap" and dove under the covers, sure to keep a nice, long, disgusted distance between us as I did so.
Cause I feel like crap.
Yes, but more specifically...
sad, angry, riddled with guilt. I feel so anxious I'm not sure I should be driving. The flashbacks have been back for the last two or three weeks and they are bad. I am fighting Cory's coming birthday with everything I have. Each new age brings its own set of sorrows to marvel over. I have accepted that she is dead and never coming back, yes I have done that. But I'm still absolutely outraged by the unfairness of it all. I still want to succumb to the screaming fits that occasionally come knocking and I still wander on tiptoes into my dining room at 2 a.m. some nights to thumb through a pile of paperwork till I come across a certain woman's name and address. I still want to talk to her. There are a few things I want to say to her. And what happens is that I don't say them to her so instead I say them in some vague way to other people, here and there-Tim mostly, just because he is nearby.
I am angry, too, that taking an anti-depressant didn't seem to help all that much. I haven't been taking them for the last few months and I'm no more and no less suicidal or depressed than I was to begin with. She is still dead. There is no pill for that. Thanks for trying to tell me there was, Dr. Z. I appreciate the lie and I still love you, anyways.
Why didn't I go to work today? Try this:
Try imagining you'd let your beloved child walk down to the store FOR YOU to be a big boy, Tim, and then a few minutes later found him splattered across the road. Jacob. Splattered. Jacob- the one you'd raised since babyhood and never, ever abandoned. Are you there yet?
Now try imagining what's it's like to then see him face down on the road with his hair in his face dozens of times a day. Dozens- in the car while you're driving, in the shower, in bed with your head against your pillow. Try imagining having the rescue worker come tell you he was gone. Try imagining screaming as your knees gave way. Try imagining the certainty- absolute and complete certainty- that it was all your fault.
Now try to understand why sometimes I have nothing to say and I don't want to talk about it. Try to understand why I sometimes have absolutely zero interest in putting up motherfucking shelves with you. My child, my baby is about to turn twenty three in the ground. You met her when she was four years old and you gave her away for three years. She was never your baby. How could you possibly understand? Just try. Okay? Just try.
Try to understand that this is me doing the best I can. I haven't overdosed. I haven't slit my wrists. I am trying to notice my son and love him with all of my heart even though he could very well die tomorrow and I'd feel all of this all over again. I am gonna have days when I'm mean not because I hate anyone in particular but because I hate myself. I'll have a lot of days when I hate the world just because Cory's no longer in it. I am no longer a girl you can make happy with a new purse and a pair of jeans. If you can't handle that, it's fine. Go find someone who wants to put up shelves cause I am doing the best I can. I am surviving.
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