Who I am is not who I was. I shared once that it felt like vomit. Masticated, swallowed, bathed in acid, partially dissolved, and violently ejected. That's who I am now. I am Vomit. Nice to meet you.
I used to know who I was, but I've lost her. She's not here anymore.
The woman I'm becoming believes and clings to God, to Christ. (No judgement of other spiritual paths, we're all doing our own thing here) For who better could know the pain of witnessing the violent death of their son than God himself.
The woman I'm becoming wants to be like Bram, bold and fearless, but the woman I am today is so fragile and weak. The slightest shifting of air will shatter me.
The woman I'm becoming is haunted with the violent and gory images of her child's death.
The woman I'm becoming can't escape this pain, but instead has to accept it and learn to live with a pain that immoblizes, cripples, and robs you.
I'm woefully optimistic, sadly that hasn't changed. For some reason I'm always hoping. Always hoping that the nightmare will actually end and I'll wake up to his beautiful face. Always thankful, which is so annoying. But I can't stop counting my blessings.
I still love, I still laugh, I still get angry, I still am. My heart still pumps, my brain still goes, my lungs still exchange gases. But I am no longer the woman I'd hoped to be.
I know much of who I am and was is the same, I know my good qualities and bad qualities. But I don't know WHO I am any more, because much of me is a mother, a mother who's pride reigned in her children and her ability to love and raise them right, and who I am has a dead child. The ultimate in failing in raising. Who I am, does not want to be me, because no one should have to endure this pain. It's not survivable, because inside I am dead.
Inside I am dead.
And if you ask me how I am, do not expect an honest answer. Most of the time my answer will be I'm breathing. It means so much to just be breathing. It means I'm still here, I'm still present, I'm not stopping. The truth is: grief changes you. It alters you, it alters your body, it alters the way your brain works, the way your blood flows, your hopes and dreams, it alters your DNA. It makes you something different. Something not natural, something wrong. You should not exist. But you do.
No matter my stillness, my outward ok-ness, inside I am rotting, screaming, throbbing, raw, lost, sinking away second by second into this abyss, unable to stop the horrors from invading my waking or sleeping moments, unable to be truly happy. But I don't share that. I don't share that because it's too much for the world to handle. It's too much to be the parent of a dead child. It's uncomfortable. No one wants to really hear about it. I am a taboo.