Tuesday, May 14, 2013

expectations

I feel these moments of expectation from myself, from outsiders: it's time to be ok.

I want to be ok, and some days I can feel it on the edges. But we're still not there. I'm still not there. When you look at natural disaster or acts of terrorism, somethings never get to the point of ok. It's been nearly 70 years since Hiroshima  and the whole world is still being effected by that devastation. It's been 8 years since hurricane Katrina  and it's still not the same. There's a link to obesity in families that have experienced famine, 2 and 3 generations out. That's genetic change from devastation!

I assume I'll heal, as someone who's lost most of their skin to fire, I'll be me, I'll be functioning, I might even be happy, but I'm disfigured, I can't feel things the way I used to, and I don't see myself the same way. Only no one else can see the devastation I've endured, no one can see me and ask about my scars. It's just assumed I'm some self absorbed messed up chick.

In the therapy we've been doing I feel an undo pressure to get better, but I'm not. I'm getting better at faking it. I'm getting better at being a fraud and putting on my face, laughing, smiling, reassuring, making jokes just for the sake of making everyone else feel better, to make everyone else more comfortable.

I feel like my time for being sad is expected to be over, it's time to get over myself and this "issue" and start taking care of others as I used to.

I'm not there. I'm sorry. I'm still a wreck. I can hold it together for short periods of time and then I'm knocked down recovering from the emotional exertion that is the equivalent of triathlon.

And if one more person tells me to pull it together for the boys, because apparently being sad and respecting your healing process means you suddenly stop mothering and loving and taking care of your children, I will lose it. I will go off on you, I don't care who you are, or what you think you know about me. You have no idea, how much I do for my boys, how much time I spend loving on them, nurturing and nourishing their bodies and souls. They have not, and will not be forgotten. Thankyouverymuch!

Today I miss him. Every day I miss him. Every day I shed a few more tears for him.

2 comments:

  1. Anonymous14 May, 2013

    Our society is uncomfortable with death and grief. You will never be the same again. Cry, sob, scream when you need to ... People will just need to learn to be comfortable with these expressions of grief. Take your time. Feel the pain. Love your children but don't feel compelled to hide your sadness. You are doing an amazing job!!! I think I'd still be hugging my knees sobbing in a corner if it were me ... Be kind to yourself. Surround yourself with people who support you. xxx

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  2. Been reading since you started this blog but never commented. I get this. I lost my father (not remotely the same) unexpectedly, when my son was 8 mos old. The expectation I keep on, never talk about him, and as though any grief were compromising my ability to parent, just enraged me to no end. 2 1/2 years out, I still ache and ache some days. As you described, some tragedies change you forever. They change your DNA. My father was my whole family, before I had children & a spouse. He was the only person I was loyal too, beyond my own children. When I think about the depth of that grief, I live in (sometimes) absolute terror of losing my two children. I cherish them, love them deeper, am more present in the moment (but further away from the superficial self I once was, in the world; the self focused, wasting time on things that didn't matter.)

    I hope everyone always brings up Bram with you! <3

    Have you seen Rabbit Hole? There's a great metaphor there, about the brick. That brick is grief. It's always in your pocket. Thinking of you. No judgements ever. <3
    Shay

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Thanks for reading and loving Bram!