It's been a rough week; I'm not sure why.
I'm still struggling with quiet time. There's been a lot of it lately. I'm still unaccustomed to not being needed all of the time. The girls kinda do their own thing in the evenings, leaving me with more free time than I can remember since college. It doesn't take long for my thoughts to settle on him.
I contine to feel like I'm making progress in my grief. I'm a little frustrated too. I feel like I'm in some Hitchcockian movie, trying to walk through an endless progression of doors. I work and struggle and sweat my way through picking the lock or figuring out how the door works, and when it finally opens there is relief, and a sense of progress, and....another locked door.
I'm not sure where I think I'm supposed to be, but I'm continually surprised that I'm here. It's like every day, sometimes every hour, my brain grapples again with the fact that he's gone. My son, my smart gorgeous funny healthy son got cancer. Oh my god, he got cancer. And then he got chemo, and infections, and a central line, and TPN, and radiation, and then the goddamn thing came back and he died. Oh my god, my son died.
Over and over and over.
Is this the denial people talk about? I always thought of that more in a literal way, where you really don't believe something happened. But I do feel at some level I haven't accepted it...