Daddy Demons

Last night was another disaster. I hate bedtime. It’s like everything I bottle up and ignore during the day comes crashing down around me at night. I feel like David is tired of me. I’m tired of me. I’m tired of my tears and my sadness. Why wouldn’t he be tired of it too? But last night my “daddy demons” came out. I’m not quite sure why, other that for the last few days I’ve been wondering why he hasn’t called me other than that first day. My son died, why doesn’t he care? But then why would he? He had a hard time even remembering I was pregnant. So for hours last night I lay in bed and decided I was going to call him and ask why he hadn’t called me, why he doesn’t care, why he doesn’t love me as much as I love my children. But this morning, I’m too drained and emotionally exhausted to tackle such a big problem. I hate confrontation. And I guess I know that if I throw those questions out there, they’d be denied, side stepped and left un-answered, probably because he doesn’t know himself. And in the end I would have left myself wide open, vulnerable and bare and for what? For a conversation to end after hours of tears and denial, to always be remembered that it occurred and yet to have nothing ever really resolved. I realized a long time ago that people like him just don’t get it. Everything is about them, their wounds, their sorrows, what someone has done to them. It’s never what they did to others. Not even their own children. So, just like every other time, I’ll stuff this back into the depths of my emotional bottle and hope it leaves me and my very fragile heart alone for a while. Because right now, right now I can only handle the tears I have for Logan. The rest will have to wait.