Grieving

When you ask me how I'm doing, I probably tell you that I'm okay, and I leave it at that.  I don't go into any more detail.  If I didn't ask you how you were doing first, then I might ask you that now, but if that's been done, then I probably just stop talking.  It seems rude.  Like I don't want to carry on a conversation with you.  Or that you're not worth my time.  But the truth is that my brain isn't focused on anything.  It's almost like I've forgotten how to talk to people, because there are triggers for me all over the place.  It's the ambulance that drives by with it's lights on.  It's the sirens of police/fire/EMS.  It's Chick-Fil-A.  It's a store we went to that day or walked past.  It's my mini-van.  It might be something you say, without knowing it.  Sometimes it's something that isn't even evident on the outside.  It might just be me knowing that your mom is still around.  There's no consistency to it.  Sometimes I'm not bothered by anything at all, and I can function like a normal person.  Other times it's incredibly overwhelming.

We're getting ready to go on vacation with my family to Michigan.  It's been years since we've done this trip.  And now the guilt from not going sooner is hitting.  My mom was so excited to share the Michigan trip with Jacob.  She wanted to show him Mackinac Island, and the horses, the Grand Hotel, and the fort.  She wanted to show him the Soo Locks and the big ships that come through them.  She wanted to buy him fresh fudge.  She wanted to take him to the beaches on the lake.  She wanted to show him where she and my dad lived when they were first married, and the school where she taught.  It was all she would talk about with me when the topic of vacation came up.  And every year I would say "probably not this year, but maybe next year."  Now, the year that we're going, she's not going to be there physically to share in any of it.  

Currently, I cry every day.  I cry when I get Michael down for his nap.  I cry when I'm putting the boys to bed.  I cry when I'm in the shower.  I cry at night after I've said good night to Erik and we've turned off our lights.  Sometimes I cry when the boys are having quiet time/nap time during the day.  Sometimes I cry when I'm driving down the road.   

As the one-year mark of my mom's death approaches, I feel a lot of anxiety.  I'm not ready for it.  Sometimes I forget that she's gone, and then I remember, and it's like I've been hit by a freight train.  The air is sucked out of my lungs and I feel like I can't go on.  I want to go back to that day and do things so differently.  I want the emptiness to go away.  I want the constant unhappiness to go away.  And I try.  And I have a temporary reprieve.  But then it all comes back to me and back to where I was.

So when you ask me how I'm doing, I'll probably tell you that I'm okay, and then leave it at that.