There are always more tears. Always more.
Sometimes you may think you've learned to control your grief, and that's when it sneaks up on your from behind and puts a sack over your head, drags you off some remote country road, and bends you over something right there in the dirt before leaving you for dead.
Anything can bring it on.
Sirens and uniformed officers work well for me.
The whole distraction thing only goes so far. Be a S.T.A.R. Take a deep breath. In the moment, it works fairly well. Then two days later, while innocently flipping through pictures, you are suddenly bent at the waist sobbing until you can't breathe and start to dry heave.
She is gone. Really gone. No more Cory Girl.
I want to die.
It's been the only solution that offers even a glimmer of hope. That's the really dangerous thing about suicidal thoughts- they are inviting, they are always available, they always come back for you. They never leave you completely alone. An end to pain. An end to the milestones she missed. An end to watching the apparently more deserving folks soak that all in.
Gonna burn in hell anyway since I don't believe in God anymore. Or wait, I guess there'll be no hell to burn in, will there? I haven't quite got my post-Cory's-death belief system worked out yet. Agnostic? Athiest? Beats the hell out of me.
I am weary. I am tired of trying to be ok when I'm not. I'm tired of being a failure at everything I do now that she's gone. I'm tired of hurting all the time. ALL the goddamn time, because even the happy moments are overshadowed by her absence. This whole deeper joy thing the grief books promise is a load of horseshit. I promise you. I do not feel deeper joy because I have lost someone who meant everything to me. I am not living more fully because of my new found relationship with death.
I'm tired of being the complainer. But I won't lie either. It doesn't get easier. It doesn't soften. And the worst part is so few people understand what I mean. Even the people who love me most and try their hardest don't really understand what it means to lose your child.
I realized this fully a few days ago when my mother recalled the day she watched her first daughter to be married back out of her driveway for the last time...the heartbreak, the tears, the very real sorrow. She was devastated. And I'm sure she was. But like...take that and multiply it by a million and you might be in the neighborhood of what it feels like to see your child's coffin lowered into the ground. Maybe.
And this isn't their fault that they don't understand. It just is what is. And so you find yourself alienated from most everyone you know...feeling alone in a familiar crowd, when you aren't busy feeling sick with jealousy, envy, and anger.
Am I supposed to be more empathetic because of my loss? I think I am, but most of the time I can't help myself from following up every person's problem with "yeah, but at least your child isn't dead" in my head. If I can stop myself from saying it aloud, that's a good day. Bet I make a great friend right about now.
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