The F*#K You Phase.

Be careful.  Be very, very careful. I have to approach  myself with caution.I am not quite sure I know who I am these days.  I get glimpses of the me I know. Remains of that woman.But I am not here these days. These are dark days and nights indeed and I am on a roll here.  I really, really, really need to be  careful.   Or do I?

It has been ten months and four days. Ten months and four days of making sense, fitting pieces of the puzzle together that will never fit, ten months of unrest, deep sorrow, unimaginable grief, ambiguity, grasping, oh hell, clinging really, to what I couldhaveshouldhave done. What did I  miss? Was there a clue? I have been managing, navigating without a hint of a map, digging deep, deep down into the uncertainty and anger of surviving the death of my husband.  Rather, the suicide of my husband. I am angry. Let’s be real clear about this.  I am angry.  I have entered the fuck you phase.  My tolerance is low and my hyper-vigilance is high.If I really need to call it something I will.  PTSD they say. Post. Traumatic. Shitty. Days.

I have grinned and bared it. Smiled through the shit storm of surviving. Fuck you to the world of peace and happiness.  Fuck you to those who remain in the warm bed of denial, while I am sleeping in the cold dark haunt of reality. Fuck you to the finger pointers and those who question my parenting skills. Fuck you to the calm that has only been in brief snippets here and there.  This goes to happiness too.  Fuck you to the less than humans- being, who have trampled on my what is, questioning my ability to cope, to move forward, to move on, to box up, throw away, connect the dots, unlock the code of what must have been the thing that broke the very sensitive soul of my beloved.  Fuck you to whatever that was  which took seconds to transform the strength of our little family of three to just us two, my daughter and me. Fuck you to those who say, in a whispered voice,

Now, remember, don’t tell what you know.  Don’t tell the truth. Pretend you don’t know the truth.

I miss the me I was before September 2, 2014.  I miss loving the man,with all that I am, this father, this husband, who knew too well the struggle, the very dark struggle of tending to a broken soul. A broken soul is real. Substance abuse to mend a broken soul is real. Depression is real. Suicide to end the trauma to mend the soul to ease the mind is tragic and about as real as it gets. Love is not enough. Get real. Fuck you.

This phase of grief is the hardest thing I have ever, ever known. Ever.  I can not hold onto any of the tools in my grand tool box of life to help me through this.I am sitting with this.  I am breathing this. I can not curl up into a ball and stay there for weeks on end. Do not tell me to rely on memories of the good times (and there were so, so many).  Do not tell me to watch my tone,redirect my energy, maintain control, watch what I say, step back, drink green tea, thinkthinkthink. I can not think right now.  I am deep in the feeling of all that is raw and real, and painful.  I had momentum there for a while.  I was plowing through all that had to get done-it just had to.  Some was a necessity and some was uninvited.  I have been truth -filled and polite.  And for what it is worth, it did not matter all that much, at least not in the moment.  I. Am. Maintaining.All.That.I. Am.

For a moment, just a brief moment, I wish to escape this burnt out place.  I want to make the world safe for my daughter, for me.  I would very much like for this thing, this thing I have never known, this fear. This doubt. This what if  tapping on my insides to leave me be. Let me rid myself of the image that haunts me every second-mostly in the quiet and always in the moment of least expecting. Let me flash forward, flip through the cards of destiny and fate and see what life holds, so I can go back to knowing things will  be okay.  But this is not so. My heart is on fire and not in the way I had hoped.  But in the way that can only be for me at this time.  Be very careful.  Be very, very careful.