Time

Saturday, March 17, 2012

I realized today, with a growing panic, that it isn't going to get better. I could walk away from a toxic friend, or a bad marriage.

I can't walk away from this. It's here.

Forever.

I am 37. The average woman lives 80 years. That means that I could conceivably have 43 more years of this. Waking up every day. Being the one who lost her baby.

Oh

My

God.

(And I wasn't taking His name in vain- that was a bottom dropped out of everything exclamation of despair.)

I can not imagine going through the rest of my life this way. Every ever-loving second of every single day. I read about people's lives, and they talk about being 20 years out from their loss. Supposedly they feel better.

I think it's a lie. We tell the newbies that in time they will feel more peaceful.

Lie, lie, lie. You and I both know it. Just thinking about my Bea brings me back to that place, and I feel drenched in sadness and furiously angry and completely helpless. You're trying to say that at some point it will go away? Keep telling yourself that- let me know how it's working for you.

I am at odds with this reality. It is heavy, and weighs me down.

Every

Single

Day.

Forever.

I really don't want this any more- sadly, while our friends can walk out of the door, we are stuck. I want to say all kinds of curse words. I want to yell until I can't yell any more. I am trapped. I can not do this every day for the rest of my life. I can not get up every morning and wear bright eyes for everyone when from one minute to the next I'm thinking- "it's only such and such amount of time until bedtime."

And I really don't believe that sleeping overmuch is part of depression, in this case- it's deliverance.

Sometimes I have a difficult time living in this skin. I want to get out of it. It constricts me and I can't function. She is everywhere. She follows me like a tiny ghost.

I feel like I am encased in a glass jar, and I am screaming, and it's a long, screachy scream that no one can hear. They all look and laugh, while I am running out of air.

What are you supposed to do when every heartbeat is another beat away from her? And it's not like I'm crazy talking- I'm just stating a fact, or I guess, asking a question- what am I supposed to do with all of this time? The time that is stretched between her and I? How am I supposed to watch television when my daughter is dead? How am I supposed to eat a meal or go to work? (I was going to ask how I was supposed to wash dishes, but I seem to write a lot about washing dishes.)




I guess I would just like to know: what am I supposed to do with all of this time?

You Might Also Like

5 comments