After Christmas

 We had a lovely holiday. Jamie and I had both our girls with us and we gelled as a family of four for the first time. We baked and cooked and ate and told stories of past lives, creating the start of shared traditions. We spoke easily of our memories. I teared up when we talked about Ryan, but I stayed present, I remained myself.

As the girls left it all shifted. It's as though time turned back to February, to the first days of life after his life, with my gut in knots and my chest constricted. I don't know what I want or need. I can't remember what I'm doing. I don't seem to be where I am. Jamie reaches out for me, and there is so little here, so little available to reach back with.

I reappear for moments when I'm needed, when Megan is here, or for no reason I can tell. Just as mysteriously I dissolve into tears, shake, sob, and my whole body tries to work through this impossible pain with no apparent success. 

For ten months writing has eased the grief when it comes, but this time I didn't want to pick up my pen. It felt too heavy, too hard, too likely to pull me present in a place with too much pain. So I lost myself in Netflix and phone games and made the hours go by, and it didn't change anything. 

For myself I could do this for days, but not for Jamie.  It's hard on him to see me hurting, to do all he can, and for all he can to accomplish nothing. He's gotten good at the balance between holding me and giving me space, but it costs him and even as I'm lost to myself, I see what it does to him. So I've pulled out my notebook and my pen and I'm trying the only thing that has helped before.

I don't know if it will help today. It seems there are more tears than words.  


Drafted Dec 27, 2022

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