Thursday, May 31, 2012

I Want to Scream

I want to scream.  I want to kick and scream and cry and yell.  I don’t want to do this anymore!!  I don’t want to go to bed sad and wake up sad anymore.  It is exhausting! 

Everything that goes on in my head and in my heart is so insanely redundant and confusing at the same time.  I want Brynn here with us, but I know she can’t and won’t be, and I try to get my heart to understand what my head knows to be true, but it doesn’t work.  It doesn’t work.

I want a vacation from myself.
I want the world to stop for just a freakin’ minute so I can catch my breath. 

I want to be done.  Done with all the hurt and crying and anguish.  Done with all the unknown and confusion and despair.  Just done. 

I want to experience “happy” as I used to.  Not “happy” and then a steep and scary, tiresome fall to “sad”. 

I want to get back to the place in time when I wasn’t afraid of myself.  Afraid to be in my own head and afraid to be in this body that no longer seems to fit who I thought I was.  I feel betrayed by life.  I feel betrayed.

How does this happen?  How does a baby that was planned for and eagerly anticipated, loved from the word “go”, just disappear?  Cease to exist?  How the hell did this happen?

And how the hell do we “do” this??  How do we keep walking? 

I don’t want to walk anymore.  I want to be carried.  I want someone to pick me up, carry me in their arms, and whisper in my ear that “it’s all going to be okay”. I want someone to take this pain away for me.  I want someone else to carry this cross for a while.  I can’t do this.  I am not strong enough to stand heartache like this.  Nobody is.  Nobody should have to be.

There is no getting back to “before” and that is a paralyzing knowledge.  Knowing that from here on, for the rest of my life, I am permanently changed.  It’s not often that we are actually aware of the change within ourselves as the change is occurring.  It’s not often that we can identify the exact moment in time when we became someone we weren’t previously. 

I don’t want to be this person.  A bereaved mother.  A zombie.  I want to go back to thinking I had life figured out and that “if you do good, good will come back to you.”

But I can’t.  I am marked.  I wear the scarlet letter of a child passing before her parent.

I did not ask for this.  I do not want this.

I want to scream.  I want to kick and scream and cry and yell.

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