Now, I want to tell you about how isolated I feel. How mad I was on the few days leading up to Christmas that I stomped around the house and wouldn’t look him in the eye. I want to tell you about the resentment I felt about doing Christmas alone (even though my mom is here). How I made loud noises all day so Art could not sleep and would instead see me, my pain, my anguish. I want to tell you how when I was saying good bye to a high school friend at the airport, I nearly cried (ya know….the fall on my knees like in the movies cried) “Take me with you. Please just take me with you.” And how I meant it. I want to tell you how I realized that no matter how great the support community we have, no matter how much help we get, Art and I walk, crawl, drag ourselves down this path alone. How painful a realization it is and how foolish I feel for thinking if I could just get “it” all organized it wouldn’t hurt as much. I want to tell you how I keep looking for a reasonable escape. I want to tell how I cried for an hour, and how he cried, too. And how hard, really, really hard this all is.
But instead I will tell you how sad I am. How after the anger, the resentment, the exhaustion this whole situation is real life, horrifically sad. And sitting in this sadness, not ducking, swerving, or hiding from it will be the most moving experience of my life, even if it is quickly becoming the most painful.