I’ve been hiding behind a routine lately, behind manageable tasks which allow me to go through my day without feeling much. I’ve been detaching from almost everyone around me because, if I start feeling too much, the grief hits in an almost unbearable fashion. Even just last night, after setting up the new printer, we decided it was time to replace my old land line phone with the newer cordless that we brought home from Nanny’s house. I didn’t think that, after 2 months, something so seemingly small would have such a jarring effect. Looks like I was wrong.

I spent the majority of the rest of the evening detaching, listening to music through my headphones, playing guitar in the bedroom. Folding a good chunk of the laundry, waiting for my Benadryl to kick in so I could just drift off to sleep with no serious breakdowns. That’s been my routine lately. Get up, do my day, outline Wesley, spend too much time on the internet, lay down on the couch and read some new fiction on my Nook, fill my calendar with meetings or volunteer opportunities, come home to more TV, take my sleeping pills, and pass out.

I still don’t feel like myself. If you’ve ever seen the movie Surrogates, that’s how my life feels. I see myself holed up in a locked bedroom, laying down controlling my body and life from the safety and comfort of my own home. The person that’s out in the real world is guarded, impenetrable… a facade. Some people get to see the real me, but for the most part, everyone else gets the dumbed down, less real answers. The ones they want to hear. The ones that don’t put them on the line for either comforting me or getting too reminded of their own issues.

I don’t know how to go back to living, or what that would look like if I did. I’m still scared of moving on, of continuing to build my life when one of the most important people is no longer there. It was always different, losing great aunts or uncles, losing acquaintances… I did not expect to lose her this soon, this quickly. I still had wedding plans to talk about, faith issues to discuss. It hurt to realize that the vast majority of spiritual growth that’s happened this summer did so after she passed. She hasn’t been there to talk with, to bounce ideas off of, to cry with.

Two things I miss the most are her voice and her eyes. The way just talking with her, hearing about her day, made my life better. How I know I could call her at any time of day or night. And her eyes – I’ve never seen kinder eyes, more loving, more gentle than any others I’ve seen. She never looked at me with judgment or contempt. Even if I was pushing her buttons, she still looked at me with nothing but love. Her eyes were always a visual hug for me, seeing them led to the real thing.

Unfortunately, still, I have to go on… I just wish I knew how…

~ by Michael O. on August 20, 2011.

2 Responses to “Blockage…”

  1. Oh boy. I don’t know what to say really. I just want you to know that everything you just said here applied to me as well, when my dad died. I went through life like a ghost. I can’t say it gets better, the pain changes somehow. And it takes a long time. I don’t know if it’s good to kill your pain with medication. But I did the same as you and suffocated my pain through distraction. Watching movies, surfing the Internet. Everything that could help me through the day. I wish you all the best and a lot of good movies/books/things to help you get through …

  2. I very much hear you on the frustration with all the people who ask how you are but don’t really want to hear the answer. You might be interested in this post I wrote about that after my dad died Its not an easy road to tread, sometimes all you can do is put one foot in front of the other and let the rest take care of itself in its own time. Thinking of you.

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