allwildgirl
Cathlete
I don't even know how to go about this. Two years ago tomorrow, I lost my Mom. This week has been stupidly difficult for me. Thanks to you ladies, in particular Bobbi, Emily, Angie, DebbieH, Terri and Miss Luna, I have managed so far.
I wrote something, I guess it's a "stream of consciousness" thing. I hope you all don't mind me sharing it. Sometimes talking helps, but there isn't anyone here for me to talk to. Lives move on and people have trouble dealing with two year old grief. I hope you all understand and thanks for listening.
So I’m sitting on the couch and the edges are fuzzy and grey and everything requires far too much effort walking, sitting, talking, being, living, dying to know the outcome of this story, my story, and the road looks like it just ends up ahead, abruptly, like when you’re little and your Dad is driving and he says “oh look, we’re going right off the end of the world” and there are things floating in the periphery that I can’t quite see but occasionally I glimpse them when I turn my head quickly, just the right way, only I have no idea what they are, what they want because there are no pieces of me left for anyone or anything, as the cat yowls in frustration and the keys click in the other room and it’s all part of something I can’t quite grasp, just an annoying blip on my sonar, like the clock flashing 12 over and over again and I’m fine being stuck in this moment while everyone else moves in real time and I see them swim past me like whales in the aquarium, giant and in slow motion, speaking in tongues, I wish I knew what they were saying, maybe they’re not even talking to me, can’t even see me standing here on the other side of the glass, I’m just a glare, a reflection of something unrecognizable, because, let’s face it, I look in the mirror every day and I don’t know who that is looking back, so when I’m jumping up and down and yelling for help, everyone must think I’m yelling at someone else, couldn’t possibly be them because they don’t know who the hell I am and couches are cocoons of safety in a world that sets limits on how long you should miss someone and the pavement looks cold and grey and somehow familiar and it puzzles you until you cut yourself and realize that your insides are the pavement.
I wrote something, I guess it's a "stream of consciousness" thing. I hope you all don't mind me sharing it. Sometimes talking helps, but there isn't anyone here for me to talk to. Lives move on and people have trouble dealing with two year old grief. I hope you all understand and thanks for listening.
So I’m sitting on the couch and the edges are fuzzy and grey and everything requires far too much effort walking, sitting, talking, being, living, dying to know the outcome of this story, my story, and the road looks like it just ends up ahead, abruptly, like when you’re little and your Dad is driving and he says “oh look, we’re going right off the end of the world” and there are things floating in the periphery that I can’t quite see but occasionally I glimpse them when I turn my head quickly, just the right way, only I have no idea what they are, what they want because there are no pieces of me left for anyone or anything, as the cat yowls in frustration and the keys click in the other room and it’s all part of something I can’t quite grasp, just an annoying blip on my sonar, like the clock flashing 12 over and over again and I’m fine being stuck in this moment while everyone else moves in real time and I see them swim past me like whales in the aquarium, giant and in slow motion, speaking in tongues, I wish I knew what they were saying, maybe they’re not even talking to me, can’t even see me standing here on the other side of the glass, I’m just a glare, a reflection of something unrecognizable, because, let’s face it, I look in the mirror every day and I don’t know who that is looking back, so when I’m jumping up and down and yelling for help, everyone must think I’m yelling at someone else, couldn’t possibly be them because they don’t know who the hell I am and couches are cocoons of safety in a world that sets limits on how long you should miss someone and the pavement looks cold and grey and somehow familiar and it puzzles you until you cut yourself and realize that your insides are the pavement.
