That Voice

I know the voice that pops up in my thoughts is nothing like the ones that plagued Cory, day after day, night after night.  It doesn't curse at me.  I don't consider it independent of myself.  It doesn't tell me to hurt myself.  But if I'm to tell the truth as I say I would, it's important to share what this voice is like...what it does say...how it changes the course of my thoughts.

I think that right now, after five years, I am finally acting normal enough in most situations that people think I'm okay.
I'm not.
I try really hard, but I'm not.  And if there's anything I learned from Cory, it's that holding it inside saps your strength and puts you at risk.
I'm not okay.  Sometimes it comes out as irrational anger that just spews from my mouth, my pen, my keyboard.  I wish the people I love most could just remember I am never angry at them.  I am angry at the driver, the cops...the possibly exists/probably doesn't God...but mostly, I am angry at myself.

My sister and I were pregnant at the same time when I was carrying Cory.  It was crazy.  She was happily married, steady, in a good place.  I was nineteen, unmarried, and in an abusive relationship.  Regardless of the circumstances, we brought two of the sweetest babies who ever lived into the family.  They were showstoppers at Sunday dinners, toddling around with their smiles.  They went to school together everyday, kindergarten through high school.  They were buds.  He always looked out for her.  And she adored him.

So today when I see where my nephew is...married, working, and a brand new Daddy, it is automatic to go see where Cory is...at the cemetery, under ground, a mother to no one.  My brain, relentlessly begins asking, "Where did you go wrong here, Nick?  What did you DO?"

I take deep breaths like I'm supposed to, like I always told Cory to, but that voice doesn't really go away.  It's always there.  It may quiet down sometimes, but out of nowhere, it can pipe up again, sometimes accusatory, but other times, just honestly curious, "How could you let this happen to her?"

So what happens next is that I replay every thing that happened the day she died and mentally circle the ten different things I could have done differently to change the course of events.  There are so many possibilities, variations... combinations.  Intellectually, I understand that hindsight is everything.  I understand that what I'm doing is madness.  It is warped thinking.  It is pervasive.  It is useless.

But my heart.  My heart understands nothing. Nothing, do you hear me? My stupid heart just sits in my chest, rocking back and forth, helplessly crying out, "I killed my baby!  I killed her!  I killed my baby!"

The guilt swallows me.  It makes it hard to breathe.  It parades her past me in a white lacy dress or hospital johnny with a newborn in the crook of her arm.

Her arm was twisted all the way around.  They didn't even put her in the ambulance.  They cut her shirt open with scissors.  Her lips were blue.  No paddles for her.  There was so much blood.

Cue that voice:  "How could you let that happen to her?  What kind of mother are you, anyway?"