Help Me Breathe!

Journal Entry - July 17, 2015 
Part three of how Morning Pages(my journal)
helped me process through a change.

Yesterday: chilly, ending with rain. Today: windows steamed up, heat arriving.  Supposed to be in the 90’s.  Prepare thyself for sweating it out in a tent tonight and tomorrow night.

Time for the annual (now) Dancing on the River’s Edge.

IMG_2276

Yes, this will be the third year, Chris.  This year, some have taken to the idea and actually invited their friends.  A “Friends of Friends of Friends” party, just like you liked.  It’s exactly what Cindy wanted year one for your memorial celebration.  Maybe, it’s growing into that, maybe!  Be with us this year, ok?  Protect everyone out on their canoe rides.  Protect the children near the water’s edge.  Keep us from making poor choices with too much alcohol.  We love and miss you, Chris – you know, in that special way.  You were one of a kind, that’s for sure.

Night sleeping is interrupted fits of reality.  Are they moving?  Prepare yourself.  Well that means a gut ache every day.  Tears that come on out of the blue because of a random thought. I try to wrap my head around a new form of normal.  Facetime chats, once a week…maybe.  It will seem like they’re right there…maybe.  Maybe I’ll fly there every two months.  Maybe not.

And the new baby.  Will she know me?  Will she be afraid of me?  “Who is this stranger?” she’ll scream.  Well, the shaman said it best; this is not my family to raise.  So stand back, Grandma.  Stand back.  Your help is no longer needed.  Thank you for your service.

Do I sound bitter?  I don’t mean to. What do I really feel like, now?  Right this moment?

Old, I feel old!  I’m entering a dark place.  It’s deep and cold and damp.  It’s scary.  I know there’s light and I should reach for it but I don’t even want to.  I told my daughter that she should take me out of her mind when making the decision to move.  It’s not about me.  I’ll figure it out.  Right now, I want to back far far away…from the hurt.

When my brother was dying, I didn’t want to see him.  I didn’t want to be there to say good-bye.  I don’t want to be with my daughter and her family, now, either.  I don’t want to say good-bye.

I think I need help with this one.  I was wrong when I told my daughter that it’s not about me.  It is about me this time!  It is about me! And, the only place I have to talk about it is here in this journal.  Many other parents have children move away.  They give their blessing and wish them well and move on.  I made my daughters my whole life, especially after their dad died.  Yes, I remarried, but even my new husband knew that my daughters came first.  Always first.

Help me, now, fill this gapping hole that’s being dug.  Help me breathe!

Help Me Breathe

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