Breathing

I'm not going to do this right.  But, I'm also not going to do it wrong.  I have to keep reminding myself of that.  People say, "what are you doing out?  Why are you here?"  The truth is that I don't know. The truth is that sometimes my body just takes me places for no particular reason at all and sometimes I am paralyzed with the pain and loss of my son.  In those moments, you won't see me.  You won't be there to watch me turn inside out and upside down, and scream so loud that my throat hurts.

Sometimes when I'm outside my house I find myself wondering, "Do I look sufficiently miserable today?  Do people recognize that my pain is right at the surface?  If I laugh will they think that I'm better and that I've moved on?"  What is a mother who lost a child supposed to look like?  I'm still me, you know?  I still move the same way.  My hair is still the same color.  I still put clothes on everyday, although sometimes I lack the energy to get out of bed.

Every person I've talked to, who actually "gets it", says that it will take time.  What I want to know is where the hell is this "flying" time that everyone talks about?  "Don't blink or time will pass you by in an instant and you'll have missed it."  I say bullshit.  I say time is still.  Time is being lazy and trying to piss me off.  It's like I'm waiting for a pot of water to boil on a stove that hasn't been turned on.

I want to know when the burning stops.  When does the actual, physical ache in my chest subside?  When do I stop noticing little reminders of what will never be?  But, the thing is, I don't want answers to these questions, from anyone.  Because, honestly, no one knows.  No one is going to grieve exactly the same way I am.  No one else was Easton's mother.  And no one gets to put a timeline on my grief.

So, you're going to see me out sometimes.  And sometimes, you may not see me for days.  A piece of me is gone, and I've got to learn how to function without it. Right now, breathing is about as good as it gets.