When my brother died, a hole opened in the world that I could not fill. I thought, this is hell.
Boy was I wrong.
I clawed my way to the top of that grief only to be plunged deeper still.
When my sister died, I started to understand just how much more hell there was left to be experienced.
I wish I could say there is something wonderful that has come of so much loss -- anything really.
I have worked as hard as I can to help everyone else through the grief and its aftermath.
But, nothing really works.
I have a few "accomplishments" that I can claim... but none of them actually make it feel better ... or less like hell.
I feel like I am always just treading water, waiting for the next crisis or test.
Someone said to me, it's PTSD, textbook.
I knew that already, of course.
But, when I say it, or even think of it, I am too ashamed to believe it.
Hadn't I always been able to handle loss, disappointment, life? How did I lose my ability to cope?
Oh, yeah, I am coping ... getting out of bed every day, breathing in and out, handling every bit of crisis...
Why does it still feel like hell? Why does being the one who is still alive feel like hell?
I am not desperately sad anymore, usually. I mean, I still have bad days. No denying that.
Mostly it is the waiting for the next shoe to drop. Drop they will ... my days of loss are not going away. Horrible things keep happening, not just to me, but to everyone.
I am struggling, still. I want the bad days to be less bad. I want the good days to be better, less far and few between.
Worst of all, I feel like there should be something that I can do to make it better.
I am sure there is something...
Or that whatever I am doing is just wrong...
Tomorrow is another day.
In The Neighborhood
2 hours ago