First Trip Around the Sun

 "The people who say you are not facing reality actually mean that you are not facing their idea of reality." ~ Margaret Halsey

Music

The hours keep ticking away... I'm watching the clock without realizing. It's been happening since yesterday, I'm not sure when I started doing it. I actually didn't realize it at all until around 2:30 pm today when I thought: "12 more hours... and this would be a year since Dominic died." The tragic thing of it is, I don't know why my brain registered this bit of information when we got the report from the police after the autopsy was done. For weeks after he died every day at 2:30 am I would sit there and think, "It has been ___ days/weeks/months since Dominic died." 

Our brains are morbid things that just simply can't let go of that kind of stuff. I knew this week was going to be bad... I had no idea until Thursday just how bad it truly was going to be. I had not slept the night before and I had to go to therapy -- my first sign should have been I tried to put it off. I will tell you what -- if you have plans with me and I find a reason to get out of them the day I'm supposed to meet up with you -- you had best believe that either my schedule got out of control or I simply cannot get the will to find the energy to deal with whatever is on my plate. 

It was so therapy went that day. The guy I am seeing is new to me -- we've only seen each other four times, this was number four. Every other time I had gone in, I had been the definition of composure. Sure, confident, easily talking about my problems and what I thought I needed to work on to move forward with my life. Every single time I have been able to talk about the kids, my life, Dominic, work, all these things that should upset me -- they should be making me feel something, I did it with a properly condition responses that I thought I should give him. This week... I didn't. 

Now, here's the thing about emotions and me -- I never do anything with half my heart. I either have everything or nothing, there's no middle ground with me. And I am fine until someone else brings it up. If someone else brings it up, I'm so emotionally screwed I won't be able to fix any of it. It was exactly how he greeted me that blew the lid off my whole "I got this" routine I have been doing with him. He asked me how I was, I responded with alright. We sat down and all he had to say was: "Alright? Normally you say you're good." 

It was over folks. I cried non-stop for the next hour and fifteen minutes. It just... wouldn't...stop. We talked about the fact I treat myself horrible, we talked about techniques that could help me through the next week, we did breathing exercises (which made me feel like a dumb-dumb.) All the while I grew more and more frustrated with myself. At the end, he told me the following: "You know, you are very brave. You walk in here every week prepared to do the work. You are strong and brave."

Here's the problem: I don't believe him. 

Hold you collective comments until I'm done -- I know what you are going to say. You're going to give me a whole list of reasons why I am brave, why I am strong, about how me getting out of bed alone is an achievement. And I will tell you, I would say the same things to another woman in my position. So, here's the big truth: I am hard on myself. 

It's true. It's horribly true. So even when this man is sitting across from me -- this is what's going through my head:

"If I was so strong, I wouldn't have a hard time doing my hair in the mornings."

"If I was so brave, I wouldn't be afraid to go to the grocery store by myself."

"If I was so brave, I wouldn't get scared every time my son sleeps and check on him multiple times during the night."
"If I was so strong, then I wouldn't have such a hard time controlling my emotions."

"I'm not strong, I'm weak."

"I'm not brave, I'm a coward."

"I am not working because I'm not strong."

"I'm not brave, because I cannot even make it into work without a meltdown."

"If I was strong, then I would be able to not hesitate before I did anything."

The list continues folks. Why? Because that is part of grief, depression, and anxiety. You see, I don't trust in me anymore. I don't trust that I can make good decisions, I don't trust any decisions I made before and the ones moving forward.

I have constantly told people over the last few months that I feel like I have completely come undone, that I am still trying to pick up the pieces of myself, and now and then, I cut myself on the edges. They're sharp... so sharp. And every time I cut myself, I think less and less. But it was a good indicator that this week was going to go absolutely out of control.

I left there with my head held high... simply because I had cried everything out I could possibly, and well... pride. I'm not about to go walking around looking like I've been crying everywhere, makeup running down my face, swollen from tears... nope. Not gonna do it.

It was last night that it pretty much came to a close: there's no getting out of this. It was 2:30 am... I was thinking about how in 24 hours... it'll have been a year since the worst set of memories happened. I wanted nothing more to find some warmth there just wasn't to be had in my bed, wrapped up in my blankets, trying to absorb into the mattress and pillows. It finally came, sleep... it was what I craved. Unfortunately, your dreaming mind seeks to tell you what your awake ears refuse to hear.

I started dreaming about the day that Dominic passed way. It was like every nightmare you could imagine -- only it happened. It was my reality. It's funny, I don't remember the overwhelming pressure that comes with death. There was no crumbling moment for me.... I didn't fall to my knees weeping like you see in all the TV shows and movies. 

The things I remember are things that will be forever etched in my memory and replayed for me like my own home movie. I remember my Aunt waking me up, that Frank had called, he was calling 9-1-1, that Dominic was cold, and blue. I thought right away that I had been over there the night before, I had opened Frank's bedroom window because Dominic was fussing, I told Frank that it was too hot in there. Maybe he left the window open! Maybe he was cold! I needed to get there to warm him up! I was only a couple weeks out of major shoulder surgery, it didn't stop me from getting in the car, from not even bothering to put on my sling as I slammed the door, slammed the car in reverse and sped to Frank's house. When I got there... my hopes fell the moment I stepped onto the porch. 

I saw it all again last night like that... I walked up the steps, almost running when the door opens. Frank's standing there in his boxers, the EMS and police are standing around him in a half circle. He can't see me... I can hear the sound he's making... it's not a cry... it's not a weep... it is the sound of someone's soul being ripped out of them. My son is dead. I don't need anyone to tell me -- it's the only logical response that would make sense why they would be around Frank and not helping my son. He's already gone. 

I stopped. In my tracks, on his porch, where he couldn't see me but the EMS lady could -- she looked me right in the eyes, her head barely moving a fraction of a fraction of an inch: she shook her head no at me. Her and I had an understanding from that single moment... it was final. I lowered my hands to my knees as I stood there, took a deep breath and felt myself steel to it. There was nothing I could do, my son was dead. That's where the numbness set in. 

There was a great deal of things that happened after -- but my mind seemed to brush over them quickly enough, getting to the one that was the most important. When they asked me if I wanted to go in and say goodbye before they left with him. I remembered the same EMS lady, I wish I could remember her name, she told me she would wrap him up so that it seemed like maybe he was just sleeping. Even now... as I'm writing this... I'm crying. She took such good care of my son, she wrapped him so perfectly that at first look... you might have thought he was just sleeping. But as I held him... that wasn't the case. He was heavier than he should have been, his lids didn't rise to my words or my tears. How many times had he and I cried together in the middle of the night that first month when it was just he and I? Me learning how to be a single mom and him not understanding why I didn't know what to do to help him. How many times had I held him close to my chest and felt him curl into me with love and affection? It was all gone. His face, his beautiful face... he'd never look at me again with those eyes that looked far more like mine than his dad's. That face that always brightened the moment he saw me. There would be no more smiles and coo's for me... no more me asking him to say hi for the camera and he reflected my same facial gestures back at me. 

You see, the reason that it all hurts so much right now is not simply for the fact he was taking from us. It is because I weep for the fact he will not continue to grow, that he will not hit those milestones that I see so many of my friends happy over as they post pictures and videos on their Facebook walls. It's so bittersweet as I watch kids take their first steps, as I see those beautiful faces grow. I miss him... I miss him so much.

No one knows, but there's something I do now that is because of him. I still do it, over a year later and I turn the radio up and sing. Most people probably just think I'm one of those people, which is true. But, the bigger reason is that Dominic hated the car. If I wasn't singing, then he would cry every time I stopped at a stop sign or a light. So I would sing to him -- the sound of my singing and the movement of the car eventually would make him settle to either falling asleep or be lulled at least into a state of not crying, though most often it was sleep. I still do that. I still imagine him right there with me... listening to my voice as I lull him into a state of restfulness. I miss my car buddy.

There's so many things I miss -- tonight just brings every single one of those feelings, those emotions, into the fold and presses them down around me. It's like a crushing weight -- all it is though is a trip around the sun. Why does this have to be the day that feels like the end of them? This day is almost harder, at least then I was numb, I don't have the relief that shock holds for someone. Now I get to feel it all, and really feel it this time.

I started this blog hours ago... finding a song... finding a quote... letting the words settle upon my fingers as I typed them for the world to see. But, here's the thing, it helps me. It helps my feelings by getting them out of my fingertips and out of my head. It helps. And so do my friends, my family, my loved ones who I know will have my back this coming week -- from the ones who sent me a care gift, to the other that sends me baby pictures for me to coo over, to just a friendly hand there to squeeze my own when the tears won't stop. 

It's just another trip around the sun... but here's the thing: there's not going to be a dawn for me tomorrow. Do me a favor, remind me the sun rises again? I might need the reminder.