I keep hoping that this year, whichever year, it will be easier to get through the days. I'm able to hold it together during the first seven-eighths of our family's Holiday Celebration Tour but once TBG's birthday passes all hell breaks loose in my being.
My hands shake. My stomach roils. The tension knots in my shoulders have tension knots of their own. I'm distracted and distractable and can't hold a thought for more than a minute or two. I'm leaving more and more piles of projects I start and then surprise surprise surprise am distracted from.
Living with me is not easy this week. Just ask my husband. He's trying to put his own issues aside, trying to be my comfort, but since I have no idea what might work, he's reduced to being a bystander. Hugs and kind words are fine as far as they go, but what happened to me four years ago needs more than loving verbiage and physical contact before it can find its proper place in my soul.
I just wish I knew what that place might be.
I'm torn between what I want and what I think is expected of me and what I expect of my self. I want to pretend that this week is like any other week of the year. I want to notice my limp the same way I notice it in Jul: it's there but that's all; it's not attached to the shooter. Now, the chill in the air reminds me that the sweater which looked best with my jeans was bloodstained and is evidence in an FBI locker some where.
Those kinds of thoughts tend to stick around for a while.
Everyone in my circle is trying to take care of me. Miss Vicki will be my companion at the Concert for Civility, as she has in all the years past. Lady Jane and I sat over lunch for two hours; she made sure that I was doing well with all the anniversary issues before we moved on to refugees and RISD and TNS machines. Everytown sent me a card, sharing love and companionship and recognizing the date. Emails let me know that my friends are thinking of me, wishing that there were something they could do to make it all go away.
I know that feeling well.
So I'll visit with my therapist and try to make sense out of an unreasonable moment. I'll keep exercising and changing my brain chemistry, hoping that the endorphins will kick in and I'll be able to leave the angst in their wake. I'll type to you and see what my fingers tell my brain.
And I'll try to smile, because Christina-Taylor's dad reminded us that she would not want us to be sad.
Easier said than done, sweetheart. Easier said than done.