****************WARNING: This may be long. It may be rambly, and it may contain photographs you don't want to see. If that's the case, then exit now....because right here & now, I'm not editing.
The truth is: I'm not okay all of the time. I'm probably teetering on "not okay" most of the time.
Most days, I'm about 3 thoughts away from bawling, 98% of the time that I'm awake.
I try to fill my time to the brim so that I won't have time to feel, because when I do, I'm just sad, and shocked, and ANGRY. My God, I am so fucking angry.
Sometimes, when I'm still, I just hurt from the inside out.
Things are complicated by the fact that right before Allen was killed, our testing came back, and both of my tubes are blocked, and we can't get pregnant with IUI, and it's going to have to be IVF, and that makes me angry. I'm so angry and sad right now, that I have no business jumping on the IVF roller coaster. If it doesn't work---I will be devastated. But---postponing it makes me angry. I don't want to wait----waiting just adds to my anger.
As a couple, we have decided that it's in OUR best interest to wait until I'm emotionally stronger. I just feel like I was walking down this path, & I knew where I was going. I knew the road might get muddy. I just didn't expect to have to take a detour. Or, stop walking. Because these things are intertwined in my mind----I'm angry. I resent the fact that my HOPE has been postponed. Because that's how I feel. The one good, golden, nugget of HOPE has been dangling in front of me, and now it's just been moved farther out of my reach. I should CLEARLY want to be emotionally and mentally fit when we jump on the IVF roller coaster, right? I do. But it doesn't make doing the right thing easy.
Then---I feel guilty for feeling that way.
I'm consumed with my own feelings when they erupt, after I've tried stuffing, and stuffing them down so that I won't have to deal with them, I explode, and then I feel guilty. I'm starting to have feelings about my feelings.
All of this is still complicated by the fact that I still can't find a place for this anger within my belief system, and it's all consuming. I'm angry. I selfishly, selfishly feel like *I wasn't finished loving him.*I wasn't finished watching him grow. I wasn't finished seeing his story unfold. Would he finally sprout up taller, and would he throw himself into working out as if he had something to prove to the world, to make up for his lacking height? Would he get married? Would he have kids? Would they call me Nana too?
My God, I wasn't finished.
Do you see that? I make it about me.
What's wrong with me that I do that??? I can only feel from my own perspective, because I'm only me. I only get to be me. I only know how I feel, and I feel robbed, and angry, and like things were left unfinished.
Then I question things. I question every.little.fucking.thing.
My brain goes to the most disturbing, troubling, ugliest details of his accident.
Was he alive under the truck?
Did he know what was happening to him?
His head... I can't even go into detail about his head. But---the rest of his body was not mangled. So, why were his little hands so bloody around his nails?
This thought process---it may be counter-productive but I can't stop it. I get mentally trapped in a series of thoughts that seem to run on a loop, and end with me thinking about Allen's hands. His hands. And his hugs. And I cry, and then I get angry again, and then I get moving, and busy myself, and stuff it all down, until my brain goes back to start the whole thing over again.
I can't take a shower without crying.
It's like I'm finally in a place of quiet, and I can't stop my mind, and then I feel like I have to stop the crying before I get out of the shower. As if that's some sort of safe-zone for crying, and nowhere else is.
...well, church is. That's a different story.
I can't get through a church sermon without crying.
And the Mother's Day service? You can forget it. If you are lucky enough to attend the 9:30 worship service with me, my mother & I treated you all to a sniffly, cry fest on Mother's Day because we couldn't get through it without crying. But---all is well. My mother being there with me was wonderful, and it's just....she gets me. She can put her hand on my arm and I know that she feels my pain. Without words she completely understands me, and maybe understands my emotions better than I understand them myself.
Right now, I myself feel so complicated. I feel like Allen's death has permeated every inch of my being, and made me examine things so intricately: relationships, parenting, safety, my past decisions in 8 million areas of my life, my future, my own death, my child's life, whatever shall happen to me if my own child were to die...and then the fallout from that thought process... Ugh.
It's been 4 weeks now.
Allen died on a Monday, and today is a Monday.
It's been 4.whole.weeks.
It's hard to believe.
Certainly I'd spent 4 consecutive weeks without seeing him before. But, I could see him. Or get an email from him. Or a call. It's hard to believe there won't be any of that ever again.
I have been so fortunate to have so many friends who love me.
I read this on the internet not long ago, and it makes me think of all the flowers, cards, pictures, and prayers I've received.
"The very act of being carried is one of the most physical outward gestures of genuine care, protection and love for something other than yourself. We've all seen the pictures of a firefighter pulling a small child or animal from the depths of despair. The pictures of a bride being whisked away by her Prince Charming after a joyous reception. The images or mothers and fathers leaving the hospital for the first time with a new life bundled safely in a carrier. The soldiers who've carried their fallen and wounded brothers to safety. A lineage of husbands, sons and grandsons carrying the casket of a grandfather. A team carrying their coach after a victory. A child carrying their new pet out of a shelter to bring home and love. Telling someone you'll pray for them and then taking the time to carry their wants and needs straight to heaven because you know that day, they need your strength." (Kelly Francis Dunn)
I've been so very blessed to be carried by my family, carried by my friends, and to have my needs carried by prayer.
...and I fear that I will need to be carried a bit longer.
I'm still so very angry, and I'm still hurting.
...and I don't know when it will feel better.
I don't know when I will get through a day without crying.
I don't know when I won't feel guilty for laughing, or smiling, or enjoying things.
I just don't know when.
....and I don't know when I'll stop venting on this blog about it. Maybe never.
So if it seems like I'm dwelling on it---I am.