Purging

I'm pretty sure I'm going crazy.  Last week, walking back to the bathroom to take a shower, I stopped at your closet.  I knew it would hurt to open it, but I needed...something.  I grabbed a big section of your hanging t-shirts and hugged them to my chest, trying to gauge how many I would need for it to feel like you were in them.  I closed my eyes, and sunk my head into the heap. The tears poured out in hot streams.  I felt better after, also worse.  Grief isn't logical.  It's like being led to the edge of your sanity over and over again, then dragged back to the start.

A grief counselor I interviewed (yes, I'm interviewing grief counselors) said if I imagine myself as a cup full of grief, I could expect to feel like I'm scooping grief out a spoonful at a time to make room to breathe so I could go in for more when I'm ready.  Sorry, no.  I'm no expert, but (so far) grief is not as nice and neat as taking little spoonfuls out at a time.  This isn't a "pinkies up" situation.  It feels more like a purging - an involuntary release, preceded by a build-up that makes you feel disoriented, uncomfortable, and yes...sometimes crazy.  If you don't give in, it will find a way out. 

Your boys, their partners, and all the kids came over yesterday.  I was beyond excited to see them.  It was the first time we had all been together since you passed - we all knew it, but didn't say it.  It was so nice and flat out joyful that I kept my emotions in, like putting a stopper in a high pressure pipe. Let's not ruin the day by losing it in front of everyone shall we? But as we enjoyed laughs and stories, I knew it was building up.  I wanted to cry so many times, but I choked it back.  Why?  Why is grief so terrifying to let others witness?  It's like if I start crying I won't be able to stop, and then everyone will see what's going on inside - I don't even know what that is half the time, so that's a scary proposition.  

If there's anyone I can cry in front of it should be them, right?  We have shared countless tears - when you were in the hospital, on the way to emergency surgeries, when the doctors told us they recommended hospice...the day you left this Earth.  There were lots of tears, rivers of them, but lots of comforting, and so much understanding and love too.  So why hold back now? They all teared up during their visit - feeling, I'm sure, the obvious absence in the house.  There is a 6'3", 250lb elephant that isn't in the room, and so it is. The reality is hanging in the air like toxic gas we're all refusing to breathe - denial messes with your head in strange ways.   I know they're hurting. But I couldn't let it out.

After they left and I put Jacob to bed, when the night turned quiet, I realized my head was pounding and my ears were ringing  and hot.  I was restless and agitated.  It was right there at the surface.  Stumbling to your bathroom cabinet, I picked up your bottle of date night cologne.  You have a couple, but this one was just for date night.  You know, the fancy one. It instantly brings up happy memories, now turned desperate with longing.  I did it because I knew it would trigger the flood.  Like when your stomach is in knots, and you stick your finger down your throat to induce vomiting.  You know it will relieve the pressure.  That's what grief purging is like.  I sat on the bathroom floor (why is it always the bathroom floor) and sobbed. Like the kind of crying where you grab a towel or pillow to muffle the sound because you're afraid the neighbors will call the cops. I screamed into the towel, cried until my chest was void of air, then leaned back against the wall.  Defeated, crushed, but satisfied.  I could feel the wave subside and go back out to sea. I could breathe again.  

I never know when it's going to hit a breaking point and cause the need to purge.  Anything can be a trigger and timing is rarely convenient.  

These days I crawl into bed exhausted and wake up the same.  The stillness swallows me up at night.  My dreams are frantic.  I try to bring you back, but always fail.  Last night you were under water, held down by a boulder. I couldn't save you.  

I wake up, the sun is shining bright on another day I don't want to walk through.  My body aches and my head starts to hum with restlessness.  My feet hit the floor in spite of my better judgement.  Jacob will be ready for breakfast, and RC car races.  He'll want to watch videos of you. I do too. It's 8am, and I already know I'll have to purge again today.