Sometimes the sun that I've been begging to see, just hurts my eyes. Sometimes a simple conversation flips some kind of switch and transports me back to a place with less air to breathe. Sometimes the amount of "living" I seem to be doing feels like someone else's dream, and I'm just hearing about it from a distance. Sometimes the noise of the silence is so deafening that the sound of my own heartbeat feels like a betrayal.
Grief.
I lost my child. My son. Not a disease, not an illness, not a seizure. A little boy. One who spent a few hours one day, racing cars around a living room and making "vroom vroom" noises. I remember so many moments like that where I just stopped what I was doing and tried to capture every single second in my brain. I didn't use a camera. I didn't try to record the sounds. I just sat there in silence, witnessing every piece of the atmosphere, somehow knowing in some hidden recesses of my brain that this was one of those sacred moments. This was one I wouldn't want to forget, because it would be one of the few...
A wave is hitting now. It's crashing in like it does sometimes. The pain is always there, always digging. But sometimes it's so overwhelming, and so crushing that I actually hate myself for continuing to breathe through it. Then I remember that I don't get to choose that. Not really anyway. Because if I did, in any given moment, get to choose living with this kind of pain, I wouldn't do it. And that's not a cry for help. It's not something to be pitied or to cause worry about my mental health. It's always funny to me that people seem surprised by my desire to no longer be here. I happen to know that you'd want the same thing if your child weren't here.
I'm tired. I'm so tired sometimes that I have to remind myself to move. I have to actually think through getting myself out of the bed and putting my feet on the floor. Sometimes even breathing is no longer involuntary. It's as if even my brain knows it's too much to ask. It isn't bravery or the motivation to be a good wife/parent that gets me to move. I know that would probably seem more glamorous, or would at least make a better story. But the truth is, the fact that I move at all some days doesn't make any sense to me. And sometimes the fact that I can move, hurts me even more.
I'll never know why his last heartbeat didn't also signify my last. I'll never know why our time together was so brief. I have theories, and sometimes they even help with the crashing waves and moments of immense guilt. But in reality, no one knows. And theorizing about why he isn't here, just isn't helpful for me. It isn't better. It doesn't make me happy to know he's in a better place. It doesn't feel good to know someday we'll be together again...not all the time anyway. Sometimes I just want him here. Sometimes I want desperately to complain about a day full of almost-nine-year-old antics. Sometimes I NEED to hear him, smell him, feel him, and nothing eases that need. Nothing.
I have a lot going on right now in the way of living. My kids are involved in several of their favorite sports. My husband is getting busier as the school year comes to a close. And as a friend of mine puts it, I'm also in the last trimester of a difficult twin "pregnancy". I also have that job I do several times a week. As far as my kids' activities, my "after" life gets the best of me most of the time. My daughter's volleyball team recently got 2nd in state. They were crying because of the loss of the game and then end of their season, and I couldn't get there. I may look heartless and like it doesn't matter to me, but the truth is, I really am just happy to get to watch her be with her friends. I love that she can move and play and smile and even cry with them. It's a gift. All of it. And when that sports loss happens, my brain can't be in a place of disappointment. Broken people can't fully invest in that. At least this one can't.
The twins are officially ours but in another country. Yes the wait is long and frustrating. Yes, I'm worried about how life will look when they get here. But I can GET to these children. I know very well what an ACTUAL barrier to being with your child looks like. This isn't it.
I'll eventually breathe involuntarily again. I'll move my limbs without having to tell them how to do so. I'll work, and parent, and "gestate". But for right now, in this moment...even the sun hurts.
