Hush Now

So here's the thing.

I kilt it this year on the death-aversary.  Is "kilt" a verb?  It should be.

I was all over the place, up early, going places, sitting in the sunshine, posting all over social media like I am okay...it's gonna be okay...this will be okay.  I've got this covered.  I was a walking, talking social story.

Hilarious, that bravado, considering the pics I didn't post (or take) happened after 11 pm when the strain of holding it together and trying to be strong just deflated.  I fell.  And I fell hard.

I had to listen to her funeral songs because they were hers and because I only listen to them about once a year.  It's a ritual.  You know I have to have my rituals.  So you guys missed the part where I dissolved into a ball on my bed, sobbing my heart out, the pain as fresh as the day she died.  When your child dies, you are never really any farther from the day...maybe on the calendar, but not in your heart...not where it counts.  And all the stuff you do in between...things you buy, hobbies you pick up, movies you watch, books you read...it's all really  just noise to drown out that one voice that tells you she's dead- that solemn, chilling voice that says this is no dream and now you have to live this way, without her, until you die, whenever that is, and you answer back, well, please, then, could you hurry up with that?

I will give myself a little credit.  No meds this year.  I left my bed.  Hell, I left the house.  I went outside, on purpose.  But then, a day or two later, it hit me how shitty this business truly is.  If you do better, what is your reward?  That you get to do it all over again and she still gets to be dead?  It is sort of like working a job and doing really well, but instead of giving you a raise, they give you other people's jobs to do, too.

That's my anger, front and center.  It's funny how poignant and beautiful it sounds to say that when you think you have no more tears left to cry, there are always more.  Well, buddy, I'm here to tell you, when grieving the loss of your child, there is always more rage, too. And it ain't pretty.   It spills out sometimes unexpectedly.  It gets away from me; it dominates.

So then, I put this post away and came back a day later, after a conversation with a friend about comfort objects that dissolved my anger enough that I could step back from it and look a little closer.

It's true- getting better at coping does not bring Cory back.  Nothing will.  God or supposed God, included.  But the hobbies, the movies, the books, the tools...they bring comfort and they help me express my pain and live in healthier ways.  I didn't take a handful of Ativan and dive under the covers this year...a first.   I grabbed my Daniel Smith water colors and a cup of coffee and sat in the sun.  I chose to live.  I chose to feel it all, pain included, rather than feel nothing by muting it or hiding from it or running away (even if my bed was the only place I could really afford to go).

That's something to be proud of.  It is.  Maybe my art supplies and my interests are just noise to drown out that voice, but guess what?  That's a pretty damn good trick.  That voice isn't going away, so if I've found a way to live with it...with art and words and good quality paper...a caddy full of art supplies...well, then, shush you, I've got art to make.  I've got things to say, too.

What did Cory do when the voices got too loud?  She turned up the music.  She danced.  She turned her attention to something else. She painted.  When she could, she laughed.  When she couldn't, she cried. That's all we can really do.  She set a great example.  And it's good enough for me.