This grief is a sneaky thing. And, I've found, it often plays dirty, kicking you when you are low. If I'm stressed or physically not feeling well, chances are, a grief attack will happen, just like it did tonight.
I've been fighting one of those awful early fall head colds all work week, downing sinus tabs, lugging a box of the good kleenex with me on my commute, and forcing myself to go in when I'd much rather be in bed in a ball under the covers with a hot cup of tea on the nightstand. Today I was able to sleep in and then just lounge around, nursing my symptoms. I made it through the day okay, distracting myself with Jake, Netflix, and the cuddling company of my dog, Winston. I decided despite all the rest I'd gotten through the day, turning in early was a good idea, because Monday morning will be here all too soon.
Just as I laid my head down on the pillow, Grief barged right into my settling-down-for-the-night thoughts. Hey, do you remember how Cory used to call you all the time when you were at work?
Yeah, I sure do. She'd call to let me know she was home from school. Then later on when she was being home-based, she'd usually call a couple of times on any given day. She'd call to let me know Jake was home safe. She'd call sometimes to ask a question or just say she loved me. Sometimes she called because she was scared, or she wouldn't come right out and say she was scared, but I could tell she must be because she was obviously anxious and needed to know exactly when I'd be home.
I got so caught up recalling all these different variations that I could hear her voice in my mind, and that's when the tears started rolling down my cheeks. About that time Depression with all its self-loathing and guilt piped up with this: Remember that one time you had to tell her to make sure not to call too much when you were at work because you might get in trouble. Now she'll never call you again. You will never hear her voice ever again.
Panic sets in. I will never hear her voice again. And did I hurt her feelings when I told her to call me only if it was really important? Did I make her feel unwanted? Did she die thinking I didn't love her as much as she needed to be loved? What kind of mother was I?
Grief attack. Nick down.
This will sound terribly mundane, but are you getting sufficient healthy oil? Your brain requires it, particularly as you have (or had) PTSD. Try Udo's Oil or another good blend. And not to be gratuitous, but having a healthy brain and being less susceptible to these attacks doesn't meant you're a bad mother.
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