Truth and Tsunamis.

I have been looking for a place to scream my guts out since October 25, 2014, without scaring anyone that I was dying, going insane or giving birth. I have been suppressing this shit for the sake of everyone else. And it has kept me on the verge of tears every second as I hide behind misty eyes and a smile. In the process I’ve grinder my teeth down, given myself serious TMJD and constantly feel a torque in my neck that makes me feel like my arteries are blocked! I just let it rip while driving with my radio on at the highest volume. My throat feels shredded and my ears are still ringing but damn. I think I’m on to something. I can’t believe with all the driving I’ve done that it took me this long to realize I’ve had a place all along. I’ve cried and wailed in the car, nearly every day. But this… This is liberation. I may never get out of my car again…I may also never have a voice! I don’t know how I’ve held this in so long but I feel a little better than I have ever since. Note to self: next time leave the dog at home.
After screaming, I came home to fulfill my mission for the day; once again organize Isaacs bedroom which has become my art/dream space. The reality, more often than not, is that this room absorbs all the “stuff” I cannot deal with. The irony is not lost on me. But it doesn’t lend itself to feeling what I meant it to feel like. And lately this has been weighing on me. So today I cleaned it. Each time I do I find hidden treasures as well as hidden triggers. I will spare you the details but, after thinking I had screamed it all out, I discovered another layer of sadness that hadn’t been available to me. I sobbed today like never before. It was as though, clearing away all the layers of protection, while screaming, got to the gooey center of just… The most tender tears I think I’ve ever cried. 
It sucked but was also intriguing to me. I allowed myself to feel it, I didn’t try to contain it or make it ok. 
It was confirmation of something I am not sure anyone, including myself, considers, in the wake of loss. Lately I have been thinking that the pain is worse. I seem to handle it alright; I’m functioning better than ever, and I do mean ever– even before losing Isaac– as years of depression had given me a half life. But what I notice is this: the immediacy of shock that turns to surviving all the “first” milestones that turns into a year of experiencing them again, might make any rational person think that the pain decreases or dissolves. Nothing about losing a child is rational though, so I’m here to say that I truly believe the experience of pain increases. 
More time than ever has passed since I held my boy. This hasn’t gotten easier with space between then and now. Time has not dampened my memory of him and of our life together. Life is weighted more each day with this truth. Heavier and heavier– not easier and easier.
I have “more” moments of freedom from the despair, but when it returns, it feels more unbearable each time, not less. I still haven’t fully absorbed that I don’t have to check on/in with him. I’m still not “filling” the time or energy that was always his, within me. I’m constantly on the lookout for something that might fit in that hole. But nothing.
I told a dear friend last weekend that I wished I could want to run. I could be like Forrest Gump and run and run and run. But I’m way too lazy for that. I tried to drink more alcohol and that didn’t help anythjng, alcohol being a depressant and all, and I’m just not cut out for chronic alcoholism. I took up smoking again after fighting like hell to rid myself of that nasty habit before Isaac left and it only made me feel my eminent demise, urgently, and holds on to me still like a ghost. After not being able to stomach food forever, I found comfort again in carbs and that sure as hell didn’t make anything better, but it made everything on me bigger. For the first time in my life I tried being a workaholic, which makes anyone who knows me giggle. I’ve tried losing myself in books. It doesn’t last.
I have t gotten that creative with my options. I may or may not be open to suggestions. Feel free to give advice. Consider it solicited!
The only thing that seems to stick is writing. Dear reader, I can’t tell you how much I have written! Soooooooooooooo much more than I post. Writing helps me figure out how I’m actually feeling. But, truth be told I’m stuck on happy endings and I notice I’m always trying to end on something that wraps it up all tidy. Even when I’m writing just for myself. I know that I’m Little Miss Hope Springs Eternal. But for fucks sake. 
More than anything I want to feel that anything I do has a purpose. I want that purpose to shatter the earth in a positive way, to counterbalance the chasm, the tectonic, seismic shift that has occurred in my brain, heart, soul.
The power of grief is so vast. Aren’t tsunamis the after effect of great earthquakes? Where’s my fucking tsunami of awesome? I want something to hold on to– something greater than loss. But this seems futile in the face of Isaac no longer being here. 
And is this because I feel entitled to more than is rightfully mine? I have so many blessings, it seems douchey to acknowledge that I Want More. For fucks sake.
The head spinning of a perfectly beautiful day. I nodded my head as I recently read a blog post of a bereaved parent who said she shared NOT because she wanted sympathy. Do you know that, dear reader? Do you know that I don’t write for sympathy? I can’t even spend more time on that— it would make writing, sharing, impossible– if I thought anyone thought I was begging for sympathy. I can’t go there. I just can’t.
“I write to touch the supple center of unguarded ache~ To release myself from the pressure of not knowing how to move forward from the unfathomable loss of my beloved son, my beautiful boy Isaac, to suicide, of not knowing how to release my grip on of the past, both the worshipping of it as well as the beating myself up for it, and letting go of the need to know what I could’ve done or what on earth I will do now. I write to heal.” 
Enough said?
But also because I still need to exclaim this. Because you won’t see it, face to face. I won’t let you. Not because I don’t want to but because I do not know how to show you how much this sucks. Because I’m uncomfortable with sympathy. Because I’d rather talk to you about how beautiful Isaac was. Because I want to talk about his life. Or a million other things that dance around the crushing reality that he is gone.
Bear with me. I can’t promise you that someday I will be my old self again. More and more I’m certain this is an impossibility. Even for Little Miss Hope Springs Eternal.
For Fucks Sake.
Ps. I’m posting a selfie of what it looks like to be twisted up in grief. This is intentional. I think we all need to see it. It feels important. I’ve gotten a lot of shit done today, and I am ok. I am! And I don’t need or want your sympathy! I just want you to get comfortable with my truth. Because after the weightlessness of screaming my guys out, it occurs to me that I’m not being honest, in person or as a blogger, if all I do is wrap it up with me smiling and declaring my hope to shine on. There’s more to it. For me. And I bet for you, too, wherever the fuck you find your self on any given day.
Here’s to truth and tsunamis. May we bear them.