…months since my last blog post, not even aware of the person who wrote the last one. I have a vague memory of who that person was or at least who she thought she was or maybe who she wanted to be. The one writing now, however, is the one who is… me… now… .
I write constantly in my mind. But I’ve been so tired. I’ve been so sad. I’ve been so dead….not really, that’s a joke. I’m alive. That’s a joke, too. Because I’m not alive. Well, alive but not living. When I started this blog I was a person who believed in the resilience of the human spirit. I held in my mind, even as I was crumbling into dust, images of myself overcoming the most powerfully destructive force in my life; the sudden, unexpected, tragic, horrifying, devastating, loss… theft… death. of my. baby girl. daughter.
Whoever said it, and I forget now who that was; “The second year is harder,” yeah, you were right. So, from this can I assume the third and fourth and fifth will be harder still? I’ve seen others do this better than I’m doing it. I’ve admired them for it. I, however, am stuck. Here. Sad. Lost. Isolated. This is not my cry for help. If I cry anything other than tears it is, “Leave me alone.”
…and I get my wish. Day after day after day after day… I get my wish. Why the fuck am I even here?