Libby and I go places together, and we look like the Gilmore Girls. If you didn't know our tragedy, you probably couldn't tell how screwed up we are with our grief. You'd probably see a mother and her only child, a daughter, moving in synchronous motions. You'd see the complicated dance of adolescence and motherhood. Unless you looked closely, you wouldn't see the cracks in our bodies. We are both broken.
Our relationship has weathered this disaster, full of ups and downs. We've cried and yelled and hugged and cried some more.
We have even laughed sometimes. It helps keep our sanity from drifting too far away.
Sanity isn't close to our lives. My law partner joked about bringing me coffee or chocolate or sanity. I didn't reply the truth: I need all of these, but bring me a double sanity, please, so I have a spare when I need it.
Send me a Starbucks gift card.
Order me some chocolates.
Bring me a book, so I can escape my life.
Help me find my sanity. It's elusive.
Monday, January 26, 2015
Some things are just too big to blog about
Take for example, what Libby is going through. That's too big to blog about. I don't want to over-share when it comes to my baby girl, but it's true what they say about the second year being the saddest.
The first year is the hardest; you're just numb and ugly and bleeding everywhere. But its also the year when people look at you and get it.
The second year is the saddest because you've come to the realization that things will never be the same ever again. You have no numb in which to retreat. There isn't any buffer from the pain any more. You aren't necessarily bleeding from deep stab wounds, pumping blood out onto the floor, but instead your body is just weeping road rash. Everywhere you touch or where your body comes in contact with life is just raw.
This is when it's supposed to be better, so everyone has moved back into the rhythm of their own lives. Don't get me wrong; they should! Its just lonely over here by myself. I know that I'm not pretty to look at anymore. My tears have permanently stained my cheeks. I have new wrinkles and a ton of grey hair. I think about letting my hair go silver to show how I feel inside. I feel old. I am tired. I've lost the majority of what little fight I had.
Still I put on my bra and attempt to go through the day, feeling like it's a fruitless gesture.
It is a fruitless gesture.
This is the barren part of my life.
The first year is the hardest; you're just numb and ugly and bleeding everywhere. But its also the year when people look at you and get it.
The second year is the saddest because you've come to the realization that things will never be the same ever again. You have no numb in which to retreat. There isn't any buffer from the pain any more. You aren't necessarily bleeding from deep stab wounds, pumping blood out onto the floor, but instead your body is just weeping road rash. Everywhere you touch or where your body comes in contact with life is just raw.
This is when it's supposed to be better, so everyone has moved back into the rhythm of their own lives. Don't get me wrong; they should! Its just lonely over here by myself. I know that I'm not pretty to look at anymore. My tears have permanently stained my cheeks. I have new wrinkles and a ton of grey hair. I think about letting my hair go silver to show how I feel inside. I feel old. I am tired. I've lost the majority of what little fight I had.
Still I put on my bra and attempt to go through the day, feeling like it's a fruitless gesture.
It is a fruitless gesture.
This is the barren part of my life.
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