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Monday, February 22, 2010

Holes in my Soul


It’s dark down here.  Yesterday, when I arrived home from Savannah, I walked in the door and stepped into the black hole.  Down I came like a child on a slide, arms held tight against my sides, teeth clenched and braced for the part where I get dumped off at the bottom. 

I was wobbly all weekend but tried not to let any of the kids see it.  I shuffled my feet and tilted off balance whenever I had to turn a corner or make a sudden move.  I was so distracted I forgot my knitting, a beautiful handspun cashmere shawl which is about 1/4 finished.  On the way home, when I stopped for gas, I had to will myself not to stagger when I went inside to pee.  

I feel a thousand years old, like an aged leper whose sores weep and drain right out there where anyone can see them.  I am transparent.  I don’t have the energy to care that others can see through me to this hellish place.  I don’t care what anybody feels except me.  I have wept myself dry several times today.  I've been through the psychological wood chipper.

The black hole makes me anxious, afraid, and helpless, and it comes out of nowhere.  I knew my state of mind was somehow tied in with Ralph’s death but I was not prepared for this.  Losing another part of Clint has reactivated my grief and I feel as though he died yestrday.  My heart is broken into a thousand pieces and I am furious.  My stomach churns and my spit has a funny taste.  I’m disappointed and angry to find myself practically back on square one.  I need to go to the Dollar Store and buy some things to break.

When I saw my therapist this afternoon, she said this would happen again, probably several more times, but that each time I will recover more quickly than the last.  She had such a look of sadness on her wonderful sweet face, I knew she was in pain for me.

Strangely, I want to stay here in this place for a while.  I have enough sense to know that's not healthy, but at least down here I know what to expect.  I know there will be pain and tears and that powerless feeling of trying to walk in chest deep water reaching for something, I don’t know what.  Maybe Clint is down here somewhere and we’ll run into one another.  Silly girl.  I know he’s dead, but I’m still searching for him, for his strength and support and understanding and the wonderful way he loved me.  I feel as though someone is punching holes in my soul with an ice pick.  

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