Tired

Well, hello. I'm thinking that one of my previous posts has the same title, but I'm, well, too tired to go check on that.

It's obviously been a while. What's been going on my life? The same difficulties: Weston is still gone. We are still heartbroken. No, it doesn't get better with time.

I just woke up one day, several weeks ago, and didn't want to blog anymore. I still feel that way, yet here I am. In thinking about it, I wasn't really sure why the desire had suddenly left me. I am in a deep, dark hole right now, so I have been wondering if it's because I haven't been blogging or running as much lately. Regular readers know these are my two outlets.

But that's not it. I am just tired. I was able to articulate it, somewhat, last week when asked. You may have heard me say this before, but grief is exhausting. Keeping up appearances of normalcy is exhausting. Keeping a lid on my emotions and burying the tears is exhausting. And because my default emotion is anger, not exploding when things don't go my way is most exhausting.

And the thought of blogging is exhausting right now. I put so much thought into what I'm going to say. I censor myself. I agonize over whether my words are going to hurt someone. I put so much effort in choosing words that will best describe my experience. But really, who am I kidding? How can words possibly explain the anguish of losing your child? Why do I even try?

And why should I care what other people think about MY grief experience? Grief is enough work without having to agonize over every word of every blog post. For whatever reason, I am unable to blog with reckless abandon.

My skin is becoming thinner. I have received so much love and support, much of it through this blog, yet I can't put the few hurtful, ignorant, or asinine communications out of my mind. The call to Mental Health Services was the catalyst that made me begin to reconsider being so open on this blog (and yet, so censored). Once again, thanks for that.

And, the other reason for blogging: keeping track of my feelings, events, etc. during this period of intense grieving. But do I REALLY want to remember? Will I be glad to have the reminder, in five years of...

My daughter's dashed hopes, upon seeing a picture of Weston, alive, and saying excitedly, "Look Mommy, he didn't died!"

My husband's aching heart, upon telling me he just wants Weston back for his upcoming birthday

The horrible "coincidental" encounter I had to experience a couple of weeks ago, that served no fathomable purpose (I've come to peace with this one: it spared a friend from a possibility of the same encounter, for whom it would have been far, far worse.). Sorry to be cryptic; not feeling like blogging also means I don't feel like oversharing.

The ugly, ugly fights

The innocent conversations overheard between others that leave me in tears

Easter/multiple birthdays/our upcoming summer vacation without Weston, who would be rolling over, sitting with assistance, be almost ready for food, and smiling and laughing like a champ

So I've just been hiding out. I haven't even wanted to go to support groups or other group activities with my fellow bereaved parents. Today I didn't even want to get out of bed; that hasn't happened in a long time.

But there's a silver lining, I suppose: I've interpreted all of this to mean I'm doing very badly. However, the person whose opinion and guidance is probably in my top three was actually glad to hear all of this. To her, it means I am finally putting aside all expectations, letting go of what I "should" be doing, and just grieving.

For the past several months, I have felt like I should blog, like I should educate and advocate, like I should keep it together. But today I learned this brilliant quote: we don't should on ourselves. Say it out loud. Get it? I am strongly considering a tattoo, bumper sticker, or something similar to spread this sentiment far and wide!

For me, the most productive grief right now (aka, not "shoulding" on myself) equals silence in the blogosphere, being a hermit (recent social events have proven I am far from ready for them), holing up with my Catholic books, and shedding lots and lots of tears for the absence of my beloved son.

~

Here's a poem. I'll preface it with the statement that I believe Weston is with Jesus, that he is safe and happy, and that we will all be together someday. However, this belief will bring me little comfort until I am on my deathbed. For me, the word "rejoice" does not belong in the same sentence (or paragraph, chapter, or book) as "Weston died." Anyway...

Dirge Without Music

I am not resigned to the shutting away of loving hearts
     in the hard ground.
So it is, and so it will be, for so it has been, time out
     of mind:
Into the darkness they go, the wise and the lovely.
     Crowned with lilies and with laurel they go; but
     I am not resigned.

Lovers and thinkers, into the earth with you.
Be one with the dull, the indiscriminate dust.
A fragment of what you felt, of what you knew,
A formula, a phrase remains,---but the best is lost.

The answers quick and keen, the honest look, the
     laughter, the love,--
They are gone. They are gone to feed the roses.
     Elegant and curled
In the blossom. Fragrant is the blossom. I know. But I
     do not approve.
More precious was the light in your eyes than all the
     roses in the world.

Down, down, down into the darkness of the grave
Gently they go, the beautiful, the tender, the kind;
Quietly they go, the intelligent, the witty, the brave.
I know. But I do not approve. And I am not resigned.

~Edna St. Vincent Millay (emphasis added)