Someday

I’m angry.

Along the edges, I know why, and I suppose it’s understandable, but being who I am I just keep on going, but really, honestly, deep down? I’m furious.

Some people have gotten little tastes of it about stupid inconsequential things, and some of them have even decided to quit speaking to me. Can’t blame them, because it’s stupid – yet something I can vent on about without resorting to making everyone else feel like shit. Sure, it may be exhausting? But remember that the next time you expect me to listen to you.

Because more then being angry, I’m tired.

I’m tired of counting the days, and coming up with enough that they almost make a year. 353 days. Friday – day 356 marks the last time I saw him alive. Minutes, hours, days, months – almost a year. Time has become an emotional enemy.

I’m tired of looking at other people and their complaints and thinking – wtf? And I’m tired of the attempts of my brain to validate my experiences and make everything ok – ok that I still feel this way, or ok that others think I should be simply over it by now.

I’m tired of waiting for a blowup that really hasn’t ever happened. I’m tired of putting one foot in front of the other and topping it off off with a smile of the ‘No really, I’m ok.’ variety.

I’m tired of pretending that I don’t want to crawl into a hole and forget everything, when a lot of times, I really do. I’m tired of staring at blinking cursors of doom and empty photoshop documents and not seeing anything come forth from somewhere inside me like they used too.

I’m tired of the people that don’t understand that sometimes? I just need to be angry. It’ll pass. I’m tired of those who look at me with pity, but never understanding. I’m tired of feeling like the poster girl for grief and how it should be handled. I’m tired of the grief, too, and I hate the guilty feelings that overcome everything else when I think that way.

It takes time – I know. Someday I’ll wake up on a monday and manage not to think for half a second that he’s going to come home today only to look at the empty bed and realize that no, that’s not going to happen. Someday I’ll not jump everytime the phone rings at a certain time thinking it’s the first of many nightly phone calls – only to realize less then half a second later that’s not to be.

Someday, I may manage to pack away his things.

Someday, I may no longer hate his doctor with a fire that presses against my skin from the inside, causing an itch I want to dig at again and agian and again until I get some sort of relief within the bloodshed.

Someday, I may no longer look at my kids, and mix the gratitude for having them with the bone crushing ache that I’m the only parent they have left.

I found myself flipping channels today, and screaming at the stupid couple on tv who fought over why she gained so much weight. All I wanted to do is reach through the screen and shake them and scream “DON’T FUCK THIS UP YOU STUPID IDIOTS!” They still have time.

I’d give anything for a piece of our time back agian.

Someday, I’ll be ok.

Today is not that day.

Though dispite how it sounds – I’m kinda ok with that too. Just… venting.

(Aka – no need to call professional help. Or Nana Moosie. Heh.)