Fragile

 Today was a "fragile" day. I call it that because that's how I feel. I don't really know exactly how to describe the extent to which my fragility affects me. It's said time and time again that grief comes back again and again like a "tidal wave". And while that's true, that isn't the only thing that happens. 

I'm always surprised at how blind-sided I am by this tsunami of grief that washes over me. It feels like, that at this point, I shouldn't be so caught off guard. But I am. Every damn time. This is a rough time of year, which may seem obvious given upcoming holidays, but this season is particularly tough for me in relationship to my timeline of loss. The thing is, I "know" that, in my brain. I could tell you that if you asked. However, it still somehow sneaks up on me. And my body knows first. Every time, my body feels the pain, the anguish, the weight of grief before I'm consciously aware. 

Today I woke up and my son was dead. I actually panicked. My chest burned like it was on fire as the bastard that is PTSD coursed through every inch of my body. I don't just "remember" the pain, the fear, the guilt. I'm actually THERE. I'm transported back to the smell of the hospital room. I'm being asked to make that same decision again. I feel the immense guilt and searing pain of signing on that line. My arms are actually heavier. My lungs unable to take on air in the way I could just moments ago. At one point I was pretty sure that if someone even accidentally brushed up against me that I'd crumble to the ground. I felt as if my skin was not enough to keep me from going everywhere at once. Fragile. I feel fragile.