It’s changed again. From surreal to very, very real.
Everyone else gets to go onto, go back to their lives.
I don’t have a life to go back to.
The trauma of what happened is so fresh, so raw, so horrific. It repeats and replays, over and over. Blue shirt. Orange rope.
Is this too much, too personal? I don’t care. My grief is raw, and real, and I am so fucking angry.
Angry with life. Angry that this is so fucked. Angry that it hurts so much. Angry that some people can be so fucking insensitve. Can make so many empty promises, to help, and thenwhen I ask they are not there.
Or maybe I’m just pissed off because it’s over. really over. Those curtains closed, at the funeral, and that fucking perfect, sunshine-y good fun life was gone.
And life is never going to be the same again.
And that hurts so much I can hardly breathe.
The trauma.. I jump, I panic. I’m terrified. The difference is, now, I’m not afraid of myself anymore. I’m afraid of the world around me.
Being with my children, in my house, it’s too much. I am there, every day, but I can see the little things I’m missing. I see them turn to their grandmother before me. And it’s fucked and it hurts so much. That it hurts to be with them. That it kills me to be away. That I’m not only mourning my husband, but the relationship we had with our children.
Even that relationship will be different. Just as strong, just as deep- deeper, because I can no longer pull away, and let Tony deal with the hard stuff. I’ll come back to them, I know I will. As the noise at my house quiets down, as the trauma slowly- ever so fucking slowly- subsides. When I don’t wake up every morning in a panic. When I can sleep without fooling myself, hurting myself, cutting at the pain.
You know that moment before you sleep, when you try and find a happy place? My head fools me then, and I reel from the comfort of thinking he’s still alive, to the horrible, horrible fucking reality.
And the mornings? Their even worse. Blue shirt. Orange rope. Reliving the last few seconds over, and over.
And for a few seconds, until reality kicks in, everything turned out fine.
This is fucked. i have run and run and run for 10 days now. Put one foot in front of the fucking other instead of falling down in a heap. And I am fucking sick of it. This is it. The full reality- what’s happened, what’s ahead- this is fucking it.
I’m not afraid. If I can kiss my husband’s body goodbye, speak at his funeral and speak the truth, and tell others that they must speak, that no one is so tough and strong that they don’t need anyone else. If I can do that, I can do fucking anything.
I’m not so much afraid. I’m just sick of putting one foot in front of the other. My kids will be OK with just a little bit of mum, for a few more days. I’ve come through the valley. and now I’m fucking exhausted. And all I am going to do is roll into a ball and cry and mourn how stupidly fucked this is. Mourn my sunshiney, purple, happy, perfect fucking family life. My perfect man. My perfect marriage. the fact that I’m not married any longer. The fact that I couldn’t see how much pain Tony was in, all the fucking time, until it was way too late.
Fuck. Crumpling. I’ll see you all in a few days, when I find the strength- I know it’s there- to get back up again.