|Me and my mama.|
Me, I am a master of the state of denial. I run from those waves. I dig holes deep in the sand and hide in them. It surprises me that I am able to convey my feelings in writing, considering how hard a time have conveying them to myself. It is why I haven't written much lately, I think. I have talked about those years in which I refused to say the word "God." It is like that with my grief. If I refuse to name it, I don't have to acknowledge its existence. Somehow, in ways I don't fully understand, this denial is always tinged slightly with anger. I have a tiny subconscious anger towards my mother, towards Michaela. Why? I don't know for sure. I am just being brutally, nakedly honest about what I feel. Angry that they left me? Oh! No. I think I've got it. I think I just now realized it. Many years ago, in the second year after Michaela was kidnapped, I was suffering from a huge amount of anger, and at that time I realized that anger was nothing more than sorrow turned inside out and thrown outside ourselves, so we didn't have to feel it. Perhaps it is just that. I can't, cannot cannot cannot, feel that sorrow. I must turn it into anything and everything except what it is, because I cannot, cannot, cannot, absolutely refuse to, FEEL IT.
A mess. Yes I am a mess, a messy mess of grief I cannot deal with.
When I see the grief of others, I really want to help them. I want to reach out and touch them and make them feel better. I want to offer some wisdom. I can tell them, look, I am still here. I am still standing. I am walking and talking, working, loving, and I'm laughing. Hey, I took two Facebook quizzes last week that told me that I am joyful, and doggone it, I am! If I can survive, you can too.
But at what price? I feel it at this moment, that aching aching sorrow that wants to well up. I feel the tears come to my eyes, and I want to sob and sob. But I can't. I know this is probably unrelated, and it is also TMI (too much information), but for many years now I have been literally unable to vomit. No matter how sick I am. I can go through the motions, but they are empty. Nothing comes up. Who knows, maybe it is related. I am, perhaps, beyond help. I can't help myself. I can only dig the holes deeper and pull the sand in over my head, over my heart.
Sorry, I know this is a depressing post. I didn't even plan it. It just spewed forth. Haha. Never at a loss for words anyway. Undoubtedly I am too able to let those loose.
I will feel better tomorrow. Not sure if that's a good thing or not, but it enables me to get up in the morning and go to work, to keep living even in the presence of loss so awful I can't stand it. I will, essentially, go back to not really knowing how I feel.
Mama, I love you. I am so sorry. I love you unbearably. I carry your love with me, in my heart, just as I promised you I would.
And Michaela, I love you too, forever. It is the most difficult thing I have ever done, loving you, but I do. I am so sorry that I could not protect you like I promised I would. I am so sorry I could not save you. I am so sorry, so sorry for every blog I am not able to write because I cannot look that sorrow in the face one more time.
I feel as though I have failed you both, mama and Michaela, because I cannot turn from my grief without turning from my love. I am just so sorry. There have been many losses in my life, but you are the two I cannot face because it just hurts too much.
I am just so sorry.