Shoes that don't fit...

I guess this is how it is. Even the most well-meaning people can only stand apart and say words and look. Other people, close in your life, blood relatives (close ones) what can you expect? They mean well, I keep telling myself, they mean well. And, really, it fits with how they have always been and who they are. They aren't capable of "getting it" - and I should be sorry for them. But, I haven't the energy to do so. Instead, it actually hurts, because that seems to be the only thing I can do these days. Bleed.

I'm tired of all that is in my head. I'm tried of not feeling connected to my life anymore. I know, I know, in time. In time. This will become familiar enough (and do you not see how really, not super comforting it is to know, in time, I'll be accustomed them being gone. Lovely.)

It's so exhausting to feel so much constantly while trying to keep up a house which I already wasn't great at (and a house where memories assault me whenever they please). While trying to be everything I dreamed I'd be as a mom to my two-year old. While trying to make decisions, big and small. While being tired of the words that come out of my mouth, for they fail in every way to communicate anything. In the end, I'm bore myself. And there isn't anything to say in response anyway.

I'm glad I know it's not self-pity. But the world doesn't. The simple, fake world out there. They can't help it, I don't judge them.

Keep doing the next thing. There is SO much to do -in fact I'm now in-part depressed because of how behind I was and now really am in life. It is so daunting to face and I don't know where to begin - and by the time I get some kind of grip some kind of direction, Lil is awake. That is only if she naps.

I'm her playmate when she is awake. She doesn't want to play alone and I'm not a strong enough parent to insist. It is to the point where I let her fill the bathroom sink and play there for as long as she will, but the floor is covered in water and she often keeps draining and running new water. So, it's not exactly alone play time and if it is, well, I pay in consequences and she learns bad habits. Last night, I even decided that "hey, they are washable markers", go ahead, make yourself "a little bit beautiful" (those are her words when she asks to draw on herself).

So, I actually gave her permission to do her own body art. She drew on every inch. eyelids included. The second time she did this last night was after her bath before I had dressed her. This was not with my blessing - but I wasn't careful enough and she found the marker. And, I knew she was way too quiet for too, too long, but I had stuff to do in the kitchen and I had to respect my husbands need to "check out." Every inch. This time, she didn't stop there...books, toys, rug, furniture.

I was impressed with how well a baby-wipe took care of the situation, body and all. But, now it is all she wants to do. And it is not possible for her to understand why sometimes mommy actually hands her the marker and says "have fun" and sometimes puts the marker far out of reach.

My husband would barely speak yesterday evening he was so depressed. My counselor is always protecting him from me. Women are "verbal processors" and I basically need to respect that he can't be burdened with my grief. He is going to need me to respect his internal, withdrawing-way of grieving. I'm supposed to go find a friend to dump on. But when and how with a two-year old? I'm lucky if I can get her to take a nap these days. By the time I get her down I'm so tired and have a house full of work.

I can't talk to my husband about any of what I think about, about our losses. Not about that day, not about things I hope to do to honor Gwen's memory, not about all the people I've met online or through facebook who've "been there" for me, not about the CHD warriors I follow.

So. Here I am. Feeling forced to present the right face to the world, family included, for my own sanity really (it is better in the end, to play along). Forced to be very careful with the fragile other person here. Forced to just keep moving along swimmingly or not...moving along.

I wrote this thing below a while back. The shoes idea - I actually saw another baby-loss mom used the metaphor in something she wrote. It works. And I feel this way still - the shoes don't fit, but yea, life doesn't care - shut-up and walk (come-on you knew she wasn't well anyway, you are making too much of this, you should be glad for each moment you did get with her, I mean, it wasn't like she was a twelve year old girl and perfectly healthy...that would have been horrible and Marie was your sis-in-law, it can't affect you that much...it wasn't your sister).

Shoes That Don't Fit

A fake life
and shoes that don't fit.

I walk around.
People sometimes say nothing

The know I'm walking funny
They know why
The shoes don't fit.
They know the story.
But it is awkward and seems so much like a choice of mine
Like a statement I'm trying to impose
Like a lesson I am compelled to "teach"

No.
Far from anything resembling truth
I want these shoes off
I didn't buy these
I didn't ask for them

I liked my other shoes
(yes, at times, I did, I complained).
But I did believe them to be my choice,
I didn't feel as if they were forced on my feet
But they were
Just as they were forced off

And these were slipped on
The others obliterated

I don't really understand
I wish I did
It all happened so fast
And no real explanation
or instructions were given

And life is a treadmill
I have no choice but to walk
in shoes that don't fit
that aren't mine
some mistake was made
and these are my shoes now

I kinda hope I get to keep these
(even as I really, really dislike them
and I know they will never fit quite right)
It's hard to change shoes
When you are forced to wear them
forced to break them in
and don't really get an opinion