Bits & Pieces of a Journey
Ok, so I couldn't sleep last night and my journal was sitting right there. You know, looking at me. So I flipped thru the pages and decided "hey, I should blog this" except that it's insanely long, some of my entries are 8 pages long. So I just snipped out bits and pieces and created the following "timeline". (This is the journal I began 2 weeks after the death of my husband and daughter. Someday I'll post some of the poetry I wrote as well. Yeah, writing is my "therapist" - it's where I dump/sort thru all of my emotions. Always has been.)
A journey: excerpts from my journal
2 weeks
I know you’re not coming back, so why am I still expecting you?
3 weeks
Oh, God, please wake me up and let this nightmare be over.
4 weeks
This is more than I can survive … if only I wouldn’t wake up tomorrow.
5 weeks
Jona cries for Daddy all day and all night – and I can’t fix it. I can’t do this alone.
6 weeks
The days grow so weary. And long dreary nights. Everything is gray and fog-filled.
7 weeks
What I wouldn’t give to isolate this endless pain, to designate a place for it and require it to remain within those boundaries. Where would I put this? Right now it is everywhere.
2 months
To pretend that it is alright, that it will ever again be alright, is to deny how it truly was.
3 months
The world is never again as it was, before someone you loved so dearly died.
4 months
I hate this life. Oh God, why am I still here?
5 months
I’m so tired. Tired of crying myself to sleep every night, tired of waking up to find you gone, tired of being an only parent. Tired of life. Tired of living.
6 months
If you lose an arm, everyone can see it. They can see your struggle. Everyone knows that you will live the rest of your life without that arm. This loss is invisible. Totally invisible. Unless you look and listen very carefully.
7 months
I should write the words in big bold letters on a huge poster so everyone can see them: THE PAIN NEVER GOES AWAY.
8 months
Please help me to find the strength to get thru this darkness.
9 months
Whatever I did to deserve this life, I am so sorry. I’d change it if I could.
10 months
This house is so empty. I hate it.
11 months
Daddy is dead now too. (my Dad)
12 months
In the gloom of another January, all I see are the scattered pieces of my life waiting for me to pick them up and make the picture.
16 months
To my love: I want you to know how completely I loved you – and love you still. The last time you were home you were in my arms, my mind, my body, my soul. The last time. What if we had known? What would we have said?
18 months
I felt you leave me today. All along this journey you have been with me and today I felt you leave. This absence, this void – it grows larger with each passing hour.
24 months
Where did I go? Will I ever find me again? I lost me somewhere while losing you.
36 months
tears without end, days without nights, night without day, food without taste, sleep without rest, sorrow without comfort, pain without limit. Life without.
48 months
I cry less now. This is good. Finally there are more good days than bad. I never thought I’d be ok again. But I am. Not great, but ok. Certainly not the same. Older, much much older. More serious. More cautious. More fearful, yet more fearless. Stronger. Yes. Stronger.
A journey: excerpts from my journal
2 weeks
I know you’re not coming back, so why am I still expecting you?
3 weeks
Oh, God, please wake me up and let this nightmare be over.
4 weeks
This is more than I can survive … if only I wouldn’t wake up tomorrow.
5 weeks
Jona cries for Daddy all day and all night – and I can’t fix it. I can’t do this alone.
6 weeks
The days grow so weary. And long dreary nights. Everything is gray and fog-filled.
7 weeks
What I wouldn’t give to isolate this endless pain, to designate a place for it and require it to remain within those boundaries. Where would I put this? Right now it is everywhere.
2 months
To pretend that it is alright, that it will ever again be alright, is to deny how it truly was.
3 months
The world is never again as it was, before someone you loved so dearly died.
4 months
I hate this life. Oh God, why am I still here?
5 months
I’m so tired. Tired of crying myself to sleep every night, tired of waking up to find you gone, tired of being an only parent. Tired of life. Tired of living.
6 months
If you lose an arm, everyone can see it. They can see your struggle. Everyone knows that you will live the rest of your life without that arm. This loss is invisible. Totally invisible. Unless you look and listen very carefully.
7 months
I should write the words in big bold letters on a huge poster so everyone can see them: THE PAIN NEVER GOES AWAY.
8 months
Please help me to find the strength to get thru this darkness.
9 months
Whatever I did to deserve this life, I am so sorry. I’d change it if I could.
10 months
This house is so empty. I hate it.
11 months
Daddy is dead now too. (my Dad)
12 months
In the gloom of another January, all I see are the scattered pieces of my life waiting for me to pick them up and make the picture.
16 months
To my love: I want you to know how completely I loved you – and love you still. The last time you were home you were in my arms, my mind, my body, my soul. The last time. What if we had known? What would we have said?
18 months
I felt you leave me today. All along this journey you have been with me and today I felt you leave. This absence, this void – it grows larger with each passing hour.
24 months
Where did I go? Will I ever find me again? I lost me somewhere while losing you.
36 months
tears without end, days without nights, night without day, food without taste, sleep without rest, sorrow without comfort, pain without limit. Life without.
48 months
I cry less now. This is good. Finally there are more good days than bad. I never thought I’d be ok again. But I am. Not great, but ok. Certainly not the same. Older, much much older. More serious. More cautious. More fearful, yet more fearless. Stronger. Yes. Stronger.
posted by kateandjona at
6:02 AM
5 Comments:
I am sorry. Life can be so incredibly hard.
You wrote that your son "...noticed that there have been 95 peeks at our profile. '95 Mom! Almost 100 people are out there with us!'"
Please tell Jonathon that there are certainly many, many more than just 100 people out there with you.
By
blog author, at 8:13 PM
This is so painful to read - and yet so satisfying to see the healing start to happen as time goes on. I wish you all the strength in the world and hope this blog helps you find peace, community, and support.
By
Mom101, at 8:47 PM
You have lived, are living, through one of my worst fears. I am so glad you have the courage to share your stories, though, because I know there must be other women out there suffering the same kinds of loss, and at least they can know that someone really understands.
By
Anonymous, at 10:04 AM
Thanks so much, Kate, for sharing this! Again you made me cry!
(and helped me think of my next QOTW!)
By
Chaos Mommy, at 10:22 AM
All I can do is try to make it through the days. While I am over the one hour at a time, I seem to still be in the "one day at a time" loop.
I try to plan for the tomorrows but they stretch out so lonly and bleak before me the best I can do is next weekend...
You give me hope.
By
Valerie - Still Riding Forward, at 11:40 AM
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