Writing

I haven’t been able to write. Not that I don’t have time. I’m definitely not “too busy”. I just can’t. I sit down at my laptop….stare at the screen…and…nothing. In the almost two years since Jason’s diagnosis writing has always been my outlet…Caring Bridge…poetry…this blog…journaling. Even when I couldn’t write on screen or paper I was “writing” in my head.

So tonight I’m forcing myself to write. Writing about not writing. Trying to figure out why the words aren’t there for me. All I’m coming up with is that the pain feels so deep, and big, and overwhelming…my words just can’t do it justice. I feel like the Titanic. What I thought was pain before was really only the tip of the iceberg. Now I know that was just a small fraction of all the pain lurking beneath the surface…a pain I don’t know how I’m going to survive…my hull will be ripped to shreds and I will sink into the icy cold water.

So right now I’m hiding from that pain…even from myself. I’ve been trying to do “normal” things. I went to a Journey concert last week with some friends. It was too much…everything…too many people…too many couples…too many love songs. I dusted off my tennis racquet and played tennis a few times. That felt good…I know Jason would like that I’m playing (or trying to play) again…but also made me sad that Jason isn’t out there playing anymore. It doesn’t feel right to be enjoying “his thing” when he can’t…I’m trying.

Our kids are all home this week. Spring break at all three of their schools. It feels good to have them all under our roof. I keep thinking about how excited Jason would get last year when he knew Anna would be coming home. He could never remember what exact day I was picking her up, so he would keep asking “when are you going to get Anna?”

Yesterday the boys and I painted our kitchen and dining room. I will never paint a kitchen again…ever. I think Jason would be proud of us for getting it done…while at the same time shaking his head at all the spots that were deemed “good enough”. He’s the perfectionist…I quickly reach the “good enough” stage. The finished product is not perfect…but it is much more “me” than the wallpaper the house came with 15 years ago when we bought it.

And when I’m alone and I can let my “I’m fine” mask fall…when my kids aren’t looking…when I’m not pretending…all I feel is pain…loneliness…and exhaustion. Pain for me….for Jason…our kids. Loneliness…not for people…but just for Jason…the only one I want to do everything and nothing with. Exhaustion…knowing that I have to somehow keep on going…get up for another day tomorrow…and tomorrow…and tomorrow…and tomorrow…