Summer is in full swing. The days are long. The sun doesn’t set until close to 9pm.
That makes for a long day.
Recently Tim and I went south to some friends of ours home for a long weekend. I thought the change of scenery might be helpful.
Arkansas is full of trees and wildlife. The rivers are cool and full of fish. Mali loved going down there exploring with me.
This trip was bland. Don’t get me wrong. The company was great. However, everything looked dull. The green was dull, the river less sparkling. Most of all, it was my eyes that took everything in that was dull.
I guess since Mali died, I have found everything has less color and meaning to me. I don’t see things as I used to.
Supposing this is part of this purported grieving process, I say fuck it and fuck You grief. It sticks to me like cigarette smoke clings to clothing after leaving a bar.
A large part of me has died along with that child. I want to feel better and another part of me wants to stay dead.
Is that selfish? I don’t care what anyone else thinks about it. I just want my kid back I am still trying to bargain with a God who does not hear my request.
It’s his will be done right? I try so hard to muster the strength to abide by that through prayer and contemplating what I know of Catholic doctrine. It’s just not there.
How did this happen? I was a faithful, devoted Catholic. I am choosing to not be. I gave up all I knew for nothing.
All I see and feel is her.
Coming home from our mini holiday made my pain worse. Numbness doesn’t even cover what I feel. Rage, anger, dislike. That’s what I feel.
I long for some recompense from this torture. We are 112 days in to this lifetime sentence. I would like to be off this roller coaster.
Home is not home. It is a house. Just walls with stuff inside Frankly I prefer to pick strawberries and sleep on crates. It would be no different then coming home to this house of emptiness.