It's been a long time... Since you went away...

Dear Mom,

I've been horrible about updating recently, but things have just been hectic. I'd occassionally have these kind of weeks before, where I would go days without talking to you. Finally you'd either show up unannounced at the house or offer to take me for dinner to clear my head of the cluttered funk. Now I just stay buried beneath the mess of my life, the mess of work, and the mess of my mind. It's easier that way than to feel anything.

This past week was rough. Not only was it the tenth anniversary of 9/11, but our water heater also leaked all over the basement, where I had your things stored. So Adam spent his Sunday installing a new water heater, while I tried not to break down at the thought of losing the precious items I dragged from your house four months ago. I became angry, angry that I was feeling sad, yet again, over things I can't control. I can't control that the boxes were ruined and lots of the items were soaked. I was angry because I was forced to look at those things again - the things that had meant so much to my grandmother, then you, and now me. I had stored all of those items downstairs so that I wouldn't have to see them every day. Even the big hutch didn't have any of your things in it; instead I had loaded it with our DVD collection. But now that the floor is still drying and the boxes are falling apart, I am forced to decorate with heirlooms that I wasn't supposed to get for another 20 to 30 years. Now these items are everywhere, set out to remind me of what I've gained since I lost you.

These days I sometimes find myself feeling, just for the briefest moment, a flutter of hope that none of this is real. That I've been dreaming and you're not really gone. Then I quickly snap back into reality and realize that you've been gone for almost four months. Four months since the worst day of my life. And even now, just writing about it, brings up all the pain and sadness that I've stifled since my last entry. I try so hard to bury it all so that it doesn't come out during a difficult moment of stress of anger. I don't want people to see this side of me, the side that is so vulnerable and broken that I don't know if I'll ever be fixed. I don't want anyone's pity. I don't want people to feel sorry for me or my situation. I don't want people to feel awkward and uncomfortable around me. So instead of talking about it, even just for a second, I have taken to locking it deep inside. Deep down I'm afraid that if I let it out, even for one second to discuss the pain and heartbreak, I'll never be the same person to the listener. Everything else in my life has changed, but I need to remain constant in the eyes of others.

So I keep busy. I bog myself down at work with anything and everything. When I come home, I refuse to sit down unless it's to watch Logan for a moment. Once Logan's in bed, I avoid my husband because I'm afraid that any form of affection is going to break me. I've welded my armor shut and can't let anything in, for fear I'll never get it closed again.

Even now, as I write this and let my emotions spill out, I reign in my sadness and pain and tuck it back into myself. But that doesn't mean I don't feel it anymore; it just means that I've become that much better at hiding myself from everyone else.