Today was another rough day. Another one. I'm not sure why I seem to have found my way back into the pit. Usually I can blame my hormones or something, but this is just good old fashioned, kick me in the gut, grief coming to pull me under yet again. I can't lie, these days seem to be less frequent, and I'm not sure why I always seem so surprised when I have a bad day, or in this case...a bad few days. I guess, just like the general population, I feel like it's been long enough (you know, the logical part of my brain) and I need to start to move on. But, every other part of me disagrees. So... Here I am, crying again today. My DH came home early today, and brought me a Slurpee, a back up pop that he knew I'd spike later in the evening, and a jar of peanut butter. I cried then too. I cried over a jar of Peanut Butter. Seems silly I guess. But really I just got overwhelmed. I don't feel lucky. I don't feel blessed. But I am, and I should. It's just hard. I have a great husband, and that jar of PB was just a nudge of a reminder. I mentioned the other day that I was out of PB. I hate being out of PB. It's a staple for me, I like it, it makes me happy, and I've been out for a couple of weeks. And at the 7-Eleven, he remembered, and he bought me a jar, and a Slurpee and a Sunkist for later. It's those stupid little things. I am lucky, I am blessed. But, sometimes I get so blinded by my sorrow for my son that I can not see the sunshine and rainbows in my life.
I've gotten to the point where I feel obsessed to move. I don't want to be here anymore. I don't just mean here, in my home, though I'll start there. I mean here! I want to go away. I want to find a new life, a new culture, a new everything. I want to start over, I want a second chance. I know that moving away and getting a new life won't change a stinkin' thing. I know that, in my logical brain. But the illogical side of me seems to be the one in charge nowadays. I don't want to be here. It makes me unhappy. It makes me sad. That room, it was meant for my little boy. This couch, this is the one I should be sitting on nursing my son while I watch my daughter tare up my house. These floors, these are the floors I should be fussing about the dog hair over, like I did before. Everything in this house reminds me that the plans and hopes and dreams I had are ridiculous now. Irrelevant. I want to leave, and I don't want to take anything with me (ok, maybe my scrapbook room and my laptop...let's not be crazy!). I want new furniture, I want new clothes, I want new decor, or different. I want different everything. I want to live in someone else's home, or someone else's life perhaps. It feels weird to be sad all of the time, to want to avoid my home...that should be my sanctuary. The one place I used to feel safe and comfortable against the crazies in the world. Not anymore. These days I try to think of reasons not to be home. Unfortunately their aren't many, which leaves me to sit here. Here! Here on this God forsaken couch, in this God forsaken living room, staring at the same God forsaken window where I used to sit and dream and wonder and plan. I don't want to be here anymore. Logan was a chapter of my life that God tore the pages from, I just want to start writing a new one. A sequel. But I want it from a new location, a clean perspective. It's not gonna happen, and I think that makes me feel hopeless, and a little more sad. I know I can't run. I know I can't hide. Trust me, I've tried. But grief seems to have taken the spot where my shadow once was. Attached to me, following me where ever I go. I just wonder if grief would look a little different under a different sky. If I would be so consumed with moving and starting over that maybe, perhaps, I wouldn't be so consumed with the truth. The reality that just won't go away. The reality that doesn't seem to want to give me a moments peace. I just don't understand. I've accepted that he's gone, that he's never coming back... So what is this that I am dealing with? They say the truth hurts. People run from it and hide from it and deny it all the time. So what is this then if I stand here and shout at the top of my lungs that I've accepted it? And yet, I am still being drug under by forces I do not understand, a sorrow that I still can not comprehend, and a grief that will not go away. What am I to do but stand here and let it beat me down until there is nothing left of me. I can not sit idly bye with buckets of tears and no hope for relief. Sure, time is the salve, but it won't be the healer this time. I don't want salve. I don't want to have this hurt camouflaged and covered up, just to resurface time and again. I want to be healed. But there will be no healing. Nore should there be I guess. My baby died. I'm not sure I ever want to "get over" that. I'm not sure I don't want it to hurt. I'm just back to saying what I've been saying for the past six months...I don't want a dead baby.