Someone told me that when I didn’t make my typical anniversary post they hoped it meant that things were finally getting better. That I was healing, or moving on, or whatever. I don't know if that's true or not. Can you get better? I think you just settle into different.
I've heard that grief never goes away, that it just hits you differently over time, and maybe in less expected ways. So... that's a super positive outlook on the rest of my life.
The reality is that I’ve really been struggling the past few months. I feel like I left Elannah Rose when we moved to the other side of the country and I feel this complete sense of guilt. My brain knows this doesn't make sense but my heart can't get over it because the life she lived and knew was in another place and that means we're moving on. Which is just not fair, because I wanted to bring her on all of my adventures and to witness hers. And because there is nothing I can do about it.
I miss my kid. I miss her every day and lately I miss her so much that my eyes just constantly leak. My heart lives in my throat, my emotions hang out under the thin surface of my skin... and I just kind of pray that, as in past years, I'll be okay after Sunday. After her birthday has passed. I already made it through the deathday, so I just need a few more days to finish with this cycle and then the new, normal, mostly dry-eyed me can return to residence.
But then, there's this ugly part that has been pretty intense lately.
I feel robbed. I feel jealous of every mid-twenties young person I see. Not actually of them, but of their mothers who get to witness the rest of their offspring's lives. Because their offspring's have lives. This horrible disease stole my firstborn child and the ugly part of my heart just keeps screaming... why her?
I have spent my life striving to be gracious, to think of and treat others with kindness and dignity. I am ashamed for these thoughts and feelings and yet they claw their way to the surface in an especially painful way when those twenty-somethings were her friends.
Occasionally, I read something by or about the parent of another addict. I am always struck by the fact that there is nothing unique about my grief, other than the fact that it’s mine. It's a horrible population to belong to and it defines us in a way that is life altering.
What do you call a mother who lost her child?
A failure. A mess. Or, in polite circles, you just hope she'll stop mentioning it.
On the other hand, I am amazed by these orphaned parents who become champions for every other child. I understand them. I strive to be a part of that population. I believe that it is the best we can do, whether it is for our own healing and self preservation, or to honor our loved ones, or for a truly selfless act. It is our path to salvation, to hope. To the future that we wish our lost ones had and to an end to this disease.
