Monday, December 8, 2014

Shell

I feel like a shell of myself.
I feel like I'm here, but not really.

I wonder if Ben can tell when I am playing with him or reading to him, how absent I am.  How I am doing these things just because I am supposed to and I should.  And I want to, but I am not really there.

Every morning, it takes an insane amount of energy to get out of bed.  To get dressed.  My stomach growls and it feels so empty.  Sometimes I can force myself to choke down some food.  And sometimes I can't.  Some days I don't brush my teeth until 3 pm. Some days I wonder what I am going to do with myself, and suddenly it is 4 pm and I should think about going to pick up Ben and try to get some energy to try to be a good mom to him.  Such a time warp.

I never knew how debilitating grief is.
Even the smallest of jobs seem like massive feats. 
Like leaving the house.

I didn't know how completely exhausting grief is.
Physically and mentally.
Every night, I crash.  Once Ben is in bed, I want to crawl into bed myself.
I want to sleep all night and all day and have someone wake me up when this nightmare is over.
Or at least, when it doesn't hurt so bad.




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