Afraid

Soon after my mom died, my aunts would ask me how i was doing, concerned about my mental state in my grief i suppose. They would ask me if i was dreaming with my mom and i would say no. They were concerned especially because i was still sleeping in my mom's room or the couple of nights after she died when i slept in her hospital bed (before it was returned). And i told them then what i still tell them today. That being in the same apartment where my mom lived and died doesn't make me sad. It doesn't really hurt me more than any other place. (Although i've discovered recently that i've been quite resentful toward the kitchen - the kitchen where the foods we prepared for my mom failed to save her.) I tell my aunts that being outside, on the street, on Broadway, on the crosstown bus, riding the subway, these places hurt much more and hurt intensely. The memories triggered by all of New York City cause me intense pain and longing.

Sometimes a place will trigger a memory from our past, sometimes it will trigger a reminder of what will never be. I'm baffled by the innumerable combinations (innumerable tumors they said) of triggers. Looking at winter coats in JC Penney = shopping for coats WITHOUT mom?! she never saw this JC Penney. she would have told me if it looked good on me. we didn't get to do coat shopping in her last winter alive.
Sitting in Madison Square Garden with Corey at a Keith Urban concert, surrounded by thousands of fans = i want to call her right now and tell her how cool it is. i want to go to another concert with her. i wish i had taken her to the opera. i wish we could go to the Dog Show again.

I fought SO much with my tears on Thursday night during that concert. And i was just blindsided by it all. Something about experiencing a beautiful, emotional, energy-filled moment made me yearn to share it with her. I wanted her to know this was happening, i wanted her to be there. Something about the lights flashing and the screaming fans and the music blasting through the sound system made me want her HERE. I cried terribly during the opening act. I hid it from Corey, who was sitting next to me. Having such an intense experience of live performance, with electricity filling the air, seemed to reinforce the fact that, despite my enjoyment, there was a void in me that was unimaginably huge. Almost like it grows whenever i'm experiencing life.

I think that's what scares me. I'm afraid that there's more terrible grief to come. I can say that i feel better than i did in June and July. It's different, i'm not triggered 25 times a day. But i'm afraid that i'm not actually better, that maybe i've just gotten better at avoiding the hurt. Maybe that's what coping is. I do reiterate to myself the words of Dr. Hirsh when he said that i should "just feel." And in those moments when the tidal wave comes and i'm suddenly being tossed by an angry, violent storm in the ocean on a black night lit only by lightning (but i'm really on the subway, or in Bed, Bath & Beyond), i just grip - myself, i guess, and i hold on and i think, okay just feel, just let it be. And sometimes i have what i call a mini-panic attack. I think, i'm gonna die, i'm not going to make it home, i'm gonna lose it, i'm gonna fall apart, i'm gonna vomit. Yet somehow every time i HAVE made it home. And usually i'm left exhausted from all the emotional tossing and storming.

I wish i knew for sure that one day i will close the door on the room of that terrifying pain and longing. That one day, in the Victorian apartment of my mind, i'll be sitting in the parlor and be in control of the grief, and the memories will be good, and i'll be drinking tea, and having polite conversation with guests and i won't be afraid of that door opening up ever again.