Every day and yet no day is the same…

by whatiwastryingtosaywas

I miss you more today than yesterday and less than I will tomorrow.

This is my mantra. This is my reality.

I always thought a human being’s capacity for missing was limited. That our capacity for tears had an end. That our ability to love was conditional.

It’s not.

I said to Hudson’s dad last night that I didn’t think I could cry or survive this hurt anymore. I’ve felt this way many times since Hudson died. It wasn’t that I didn’t think I could physically do it; I was crying at the time. It’s a mental thing. I felt at my end. I truly understood those stories of husbands dying from broken hearts weeks after losing their wives. I felt as though if one more tear were to make its way down my cheeks, I would simply give up. Die. Leave all of this behind. That I’d reached my end. That I simply couldn’t miss him anymore. That I’d reached my capacity for hurt.

Obviously I hadn’t. Here I am. Typing a blog. Missing him.

Most days I feel a fraud. I am surrounded by people who tell me I’m strong. That the fact that I get up every day is inspiring.

Privately, I’m not strong. I’m hopelessly lost to this pain. It controls my life. It changes me daily. My face has changed. I’m older. Sometimes the only way out is anger and bitterness. I have very little patience (even though I’d hoped the one lesson I’d learn from this was to be patient with people), I’ve mentally written people out of my life for not being who I need them to be and I’m ferociously protective of Hudson’s dad and myself. I’m ready to and do lash out verbally and even feel like I could go completely against my grain and strike out were it to come to that.

I’m not even sure if the anger eases the journey. I feel it the same way I feel the hurt and the longing. A continuous tension in every single tendon, muscle, bone, atom. It just feels more useful than pain and hurt sometimes. Feels better than being dead inside.

Publicly, I carry on. I keep my head up. I have days where I have to leave my table and cry as discretely as I can somewhere away but, for the most part, I maintain my uprightness. I talk to no-one about him because I am sure they’re over it. I have only this blog as a public outlet. This way, the people who are interested can be alongside me through this journey and the people who aren’t can scroll on.

In ten days my son would’ve been six months old. In thirteen, he’ll have been dead for two months. Right now, six weeks feels like an eternity as does the rest of today and every day that faces me. An eternity that is the hell everyone always talked about when I was young.

I now know what hell is. It’s losing a child.