I can't breathe...

In reality, I am breathing, it is just that it all came crashing down on me today. Nothing seems real. Nothing seems right. My father came over today, and all I could do was sit and cry. It was good to have him over, because the loneliness is the hardest part. This is becoming (or always has been) so very difficult. I sometimes think I am not strong enough for this...scratch that...I realize that I am not strong enough for this.

I was hopeful that getting away would be for the good. I do think it was, for the kids. And that was what was important. For me? Too many Mamas and Daddys...too many "whole" families. Too much to handle. Too soon. I get this lightheaded, not breathing enough feeling. I wake up each morning with plans, at least things that I have to do. I spend each day drinking cup after cup of coffee...remembering stupid things, like how many containers of coffee I have gone through since he was last here. This morning I put away the sliver of soap that was the last bar of soap he had used. Silly, but necessary to do. I had removed it from the shower and set it aside. I put it in a baggy along with his hairbrush...which contains the hair he was always asking me to clear off of it. I am glad I didn't. All of these things are stupid...goofy...but I need to do them. I need to preserve each last little tangible bit of his presence... the proof that he really was here for me to love, to take care of us.

I was trying to respond to emails today, and private messages that I have received from a couple of boards I am on, and I couldn't remember who I had written to. So, instead, I spent the time thinking about how his collar used to fit to his neck. And then I went and ran my hands along the inside of the collars of his shirts, attempting to feel him once more. I placed my hands on the bag that contains the urn with his ashes (it is a temporary urn-I have yet to be so I final as to order a permanent one) and attempted (once again) to will him back to me. Our room is a disaster. Two months of piled up "stuff" doesn't bode well for a very small room. We gave up the master bedroom for our son, when his toys soon outnumbered the amount of time he would be young enough to enjoy them. I stopped looking at his pictures at...I avert my gaze when I walk by them. I click on "new post" quickly here, so as not to be confronted with him...with the face I long for.

Rachel often speaks of feeling like life is a yo-yo ( I hope you don't mind me speaking about it Rachel) and how, many times, it feels like the yo is on a down swing. The past few days, or is it weeks now, the yo has been spiraling down. Down to where I didn't think it was possible to go. To the leaden ache in my chest that has me again wondering about hearts and breakage and the possibility of that happening; and to the competing thud in my head, as each minute brings about that realization that he is gone. Again, and again. No relief, no respite. So many recriminations-things I should have made time for. Dinners eaten too late, weekends wasted. And forever the thoughts of that day, of him, of me, our son, our daughter. It is as if things stopped making sense on August 26th, and all of the study, soul searching, and rest cannot make it literate again.