Is it Sunday? Usually it's Sunday and blogging. But it's not Sunday. And I still can't tell what day of the week it is most of the time. Except for Thursdays.
I won't talk about the election.
Ok, that's a lie.
I am not insulting people, I'm not claiming it was rigged, I'm not protesting. But I am mourning. I'm mourning my candidate. I'm mourning all that I believed in. I am despondent. And afraid.
But I'm not being a "sore loser".
However, I see a lot of sore winners.
I wish people weren't gloating and still slinging insults today, but alas, this is the start of our new America.
Ok, enough about that.
We still have other things to cope with here at home. More pressing things than even the presidential election.
The boy is very angry a lot of the time. Sullen. Withdrawn. He still doesn't really want to talk to me about it. He doesn't want much to do with me at all, actually. I am assured by friends, family, professionals, that this is totally age appropriate for a teenage son and his mother. But it sucks. And I thought that perhaps through this tragedy he would need me more. But he doesn't.
I did make him come with me to see our counselor this week. He talked a little. More than I expected. He said he would think about going again, but I know he doesn't want to. Perhaps I can bribe him again with Chi-fil-A.
His family at his dad's is making arrangements for a grief counselor to come to their home for sessions. He is actually looking forward to that. He did tell me that he feels more comfortable talking about it there, with his dad. Because they all suffered this loss with him. They can relate, and understand. Evidently I cannot. And of course I can't. It wasn't my brother. It wasn't my son. And at least he's talking to someone. I am thankful for that.
But a mother feels every stitch of pain that her child feels. And I have been in pain right along side him for these last three weeks.
It's Thursday. And Thursdays are particularly awful. I wonder if Thursdays will always be different now. Always remembering that Thursday morning when I got the call... Speed to the school and get my son. Explain to him what had happened. Speed to the hospital... What we all went through that day. What my son had to endure that day. His stepmother, his father, his siblings. How I watched helplessly, as they all lost their boy.
I still have nightmares about it, when I do sleep. And day nightmares, if you will. While I'm sitting around, or doing errands, or watching tv, or driving, or working... And it just surfaces from out of nowhere. That horrible day, replays itself all over again, every painful detail.
Being alone through this has perhaps helped me become more tolerant of my own company. Being lonely in the midst of such tragedy can do that for a person, I guess.
Don't get me wrong, I would have been more than happy to have had a "shoulder to cry on"... someone to cuddle up to every night while I cry myself to sleep, to wake me from my reoccurring nightmares... Just to help me get through each fucking day. But that's not in the cards for me right now, I guess. That's not my present, and probably not my future.
But, I digress.
Missing four days of work last month is taking it's toll. Although the girls at work put out a donation jar last month (thank you, ladies). I did get some generous donations that helped us. But it's amazing what you'll spend when your child is hurting like this. New video games, trips to the trampoline park, dinners out.. all in an effort to just try and lift their spirits, if only for a moment. And I don't regret one penny spent. I'll borrow from someone if I have to. Sell something. Put off bills to still have a decent Christmas...
Speaking of Christmas...
I put out all my decorations early this year (as I do most every year). Everything but the tree.
I thought it would lift my spirits. And it did, briefly.
But what comes along with this kind of tragedy, is the guilt. It's absolutely awful. Guilt for living. Guilt for enjoying something. Guilt for trying to be happy. And you can say what you'd like... "They'd want you to continue to live, to be happy".. blah blah blah... But it's simply not that easy. The guilt sticks to you. It clings to every happy moment you experience.
Not to mention, the knowing. Knowing that, for my son, Christmas will never be the same again.
I suppose, I should go get ready for work.
Thanks for being my therapy this morning. I see my actual therapist again on Monday.
I know I need to.
Thursday, November 3, 2016
Two weeks. Two weeks of hardly sleeping. Two weeks of mindless autopilot. Of frightening moments when it hits you out of the blue and you relive the day all over again. Of not being able to get it out of your head. Of crying. Being angry. Being numb. Not being able to concentrate. Of pain. The kind of pain that you could have only imagined before. Two weeks in my son's nightmare, and I just want us to wake up.