Six months in, everything about having a dead mother is still awful. In case you were wondering. Someone remarked today that there is no proper timeline, take as long as you need, but I think the truth might be that there is no timeline at all, that this just continues to suck, world without end.
I know things were worse or maybe more actively bad say five months and three weeks ago, but it doesn’t seem like the chronic stage of this will ever be less painful. It’s true that I no longer contort my face in silent screaming every time I am alone in the shower, but I still cry every day. Sometimes I am in bed at night and it strikes me that I haven’t cried that day. Those were the nights I have the most trouble stopping crying.
The thing is, I really don’t think I’m depressed. I know what I’m like as a depressed person, and this isn’t it. I’m the tired all the time, distant, shut-down kind of depressive. The kind where you can’t shake the idea that the whole world is just a movie you are watching. I don’t feel like that. I engage with my kids, I find things funny and interesting. And then, because she loved my kids and there was literally nothing on earth that didn’t interest her, I immediately want to call to tell her about it. Luckily, that doesn’t happen much more than 150 times a day, usually.
Did I say she loved my kids? Well, she loved the idea of the second one. This girl who is such a pleasure, such an easy baby. Who I am able to purely enjoy in a way that, sick in so many ways, I couldn’t enjoy her brother at this age. To whom I know I am a better parent than I was to him, the kind of parent I wanted to show mine I could be.
(Do not get me started on my father, whom I love very much and whom I feel very hurt by and very worried about right now. Suffice it at this writing to say that I feel like I have lost both parents at one stroke.)
Dear Whatever Doesn’t Kill Me, begins an ecard making the Facebook rounds. You can stop now. I’m strong enough.