I haven’t written in a few days, partially because I don’t have much to say. I haven’t figured out how I feel yet to be able to put it into words. It’s also partially because it’s all dark and yucky. I don’t like being so down all the time … the dark one who only speaks of her son who has passed. But honestly? It’s all I can think of. Every few minutes, if not seconds, I think about it. Sometimes it’s a flash back of finding him in his crib. Other times it’s a fond memory like how I could feel his butt right in the middle of my stomach while pregnant, or the raspberries he used to blow or how he always slept in the same position (flat on his back, arms spread above his head).
The anxiety is more intense. The numbness of shock is starting to wear off. But it’s all messy and jumbled. Nothing makes much sense. Am I angry or just in severe pain? Am I crying because I miss him or because I’m hurting? I can’t breathe – is it because of the memories of the past or the thoughts of the future without him? Perhaps it’s a little of everything, but it all bleeds into itself. Pain comes out as anger. Sadness as a short temper or fatigue. Nothing is what is seems to be or should be.
It’s time to start talking to someone. I’ve been a big supporter of counseling for a while now. I found that it helped through some high school depression, was a comfort when away at college and now something I go back to when I need it. (I don’t usually talk openly about going to counseling, but I figured I’ve blogged about the most painful part of my life, I might as well let readers in on how I recover from it.) I’m not sure how I want to go about this. Do I talk to someone one on one? Or maybe to a pastor? Or would a support group make the most sense?
I hesitate if it’s even going to help. No one will understand completely. No one’s story is like ours. No one knew Owen as a son like Doug and I. I think of the parts of the story that I cling to. Being a part of triplets, Jaden, the blog, finding him, the medical tests, donating his organs. Who else will be able to relate to our story? Perhaps someone else has blogged about it, but was their story as public as ours? If their child was a triplet, was he 6 months old and did he have an older brother?
If their story isn’t the same as mine, how can they possibly know what I”m feeling? And if they don’t know how I feel, how can they help?
I know help is out there. Books, support groups, counselors, therapists, etc.
There are friends who have the ability to make me feel better, even if it’s just for a little while. Take tonight … after flying the coop and going for a little ‘shopping therapy’ at Michael’s craft store, all it took was a text to a friend. ”Want to grab a cup of coffee tonight?” She met me for dinner. For 2 short hours, I had a little break; I didn’t feel as heavy. Even if it wasn’t permanent, it was a break for just a little while. I need to remember to come up for air every once in a while. The breaks are what helps me sustain my strength.
We talked a lot about Owen and how I was feeling. What was becoming hard, what did I think about all the time. We talked about how we both cope. She didn’t do all the listening … which was nice. It gave me a chance to think about something else. It also let me know that she trusted me. She shared just as much as I did. I wasn’t alone in the conversation. That’s what it was … not a therapy or listening session, but a dinner between two friends having a good conversation.
I love her, not because she knows me the best, but because she doesn’t look at me or treat me like I’m broken. She also doesn’t treat me like nothing has happened. She treats me like Mel. The woman who lost her son, but is still searching for reasons to smile. Who still enjoys her three living boys. Who wants to get better, and get stronger each day. She doesn’t try to understand how I feel. She doesn’t validate that what I’m feel is ok or right. She’d never be able to work for Hallmark — she doesn’t offer greeting card responses. Rather, she responds with questions to better (not fully) understand. She offers parts of her own story. We laugh. Our dinner was just what I needed tonight.
I have a feeling, this ‘emotion jambalaya’ is only going to get worse as more of the numbness wears off. But I think I’m ready to ask for help …