Yesterday evening was excruciating. I mourned from the very depths of me, yet couldn’t make a sound. It was a dry vomit of emotion, nothing left, yet still it came. Unrelenting.
I can think I’m okay and suddenly see a moment of tenderness when watching Modern Familywith Charlotte or Don or reading a paragraph in a ‘cozy’ book where nothing overtly upsetting should be happening, and suddenly I am right back in this overgrown forest with no trail on a cold and starless night.
I’m reluctant to visit with people much because it starts the cycle of remembering. People want to honour Emily, share stories, and, honestly, I sometimes want to forget. Forget that she was. Forget that our 17 years together were full of love and light along with some precipitous chasms that she would tumble into without warning.
Depression is a tricky beast. That’s all I want to say now. That’s all I can say because I don’t understand it. I’ve never been there. My sadnesses have been around events and circumstances, not a heavy coat that could smother me at any time, without warning or weather, one that was always waiting in the closet for me, no matter the season.
There is an unfathomable sadness in me that we could not fix this thing that existed in her, that we could not make this go away in spite of Don being the most amazing father, with a true soul connection to his Emily, and me being the best mother to our daughter that anyone could honestly be. I don’t say that with pride. I say that with such difficulty because my love, our love, was not enough to save our child. That is a hard burden to bear. Probably the hardest burden I will ever carry. God help me if there is anything more difficult than this.
I’ve been driving today – I drove from Vancouver with Charlotte to Abbotsford to pick up my father, and then delivered them to the bus to take them across the border. They are bound for Seattle to spend time with my sister and extended family over Christmas. Don and I will join them after the celebration. They both need the company and the loving. At this moment, Don and I need space and an ability to get away in the face of either too much joy or too much grief received from others. Both are triggers. Everything is a trigger.
I have pulled over in a parking lot, facing a forest, somewhere on my way home. I don’t really know where I am. I don’t care. I’ll get there eventually.
This heart work is hard. I hate it. And yet I know it is the only way out of this dark night.