Today is the longest, saddest day so far. Every time I stop crying, I start again.
I feel Greg's pain - over and over all day. I feel his shame. I carry his sadness. I ache for his frustration and loneliness.
A friend is supposed to come to visit shortly after noon today. I know he's concerned about me, and I love him dearly, but I can't do it. I can't compose myself enough to talk to anyone - at least not now. I'm not prepared to share this kind of grief.
I text him to ask him if he could come another day. He assures me that he can - and will. I can almost hear his voice in his text. I'm feel awful, but Michael tells me it's okay. He says it's okay for me to take care of myself. I guess so, but I'm disappointed in myself. I should be able to "tough up" long enough to see a friend. Not today. I can't.
We're having network problems with our computers and yesterday I asked a computer/network guru friend if he could take a look. He said he had some things that he had to do, but that he would come soon. Today is the day.
He texted me and asked if this afternoon would be okay. I replied, "Sure! Thank you!". I am incredibly grateful for his help, but I wonder how in the world I'll pull myself together while he's here.
I have to clean off my desk (you don't even want to know about the foot high pile of "stuff" on my desk) so that he can sit there. I don't want to do it.
The first thing I find are two CD's Greg made for me and an inventory of my oxygen supplies that he wrote for me. I'm overwhelmed. I'm exhausted. I'm done. I leave the room, crying.
I crash on the couch and cry myself to sleep. After sleeping almost an hour, I feel a little better. I can do this.
"This is not a choice," I remind myself. I have to do this.
Back to the desk and I find a sentimental Mother's Day card from Greg with the envelope marked "Mother of Mine". I can hear his voice and again, I start to cry. I cry while I put "things to go downstairs" into a box. I'm still crying as I place "things to go to the yellow room" in another box. Greg is everywhere and I'm not ready to do this.
No more. Time for another break. There are bracelets that I need to ship today (I have an online shop) so... downstairs to my "studio" (so pretentious) to make the bracelets. Being busy helps. "I'm going to be okay," I tell myself.
Scott (my friend, not my son) texts me to see if he can come early. "Sure!," I texted back, taking a deep breath. Upstairs to say "hi" - and then back down to finish the bracelets and stay out of his way while he works - and regroup. When Scott finishes, he and Michael and I sit in the dining room and talk. It's okay. We talk about all kind of things and it helps. It's great to see him. He looks wonderful and I've missed him. I'm glad he came. I'm glad I cleaned off my desk.
So... I think I'm okay. Michael and I go out to run an errand and maybe grab something to eat. Three times before we get to the store, the tears come again. It doesn't last as long - it comes in waves, but I'm still feeling all the things Greg must have felt over the last 8 years? 15 years? The weight of it is crushing me.
Michael and I talk about going to Chili's and then the tears come again. I need to go home, so we stop and pick something up to take home for dinner - and I'm relieved to get home.
There have been a lot of tears over the past couple of years - tears of worry - tears of fear - tears from feeling Greg's palpable pain, but not being able to put words to the pain. I've felt the ache in his heart. I could see it in his eyes. I wanted to hold him like I did when he was little - assure him that it will all be okay - and make it go away, but I can't.
Today has been horrible. Because he is (always) my son, I'm grateful to know and understand what he was feeling, but the knowing breaks me in a way I've not known before.
Would it have helped if I'd understood earlier? Would it have made a difference if I'd known sooner how much trouble he was in? Maybe not, but I'll never know.
I feel Greg's pain - over and over all day. I feel his shame. I carry his sadness. I ache for his frustration and loneliness.
A friend is supposed to come to visit shortly after noon today. I know he's concerned about me, and I love him dearly, but I can't do it. I can't compose myself enough to talk to anyone - at least not now. I'm not prepared to share this kind of grief.
I text him to ask him if he could come another day. He assures me that he can - and will. I can almost hear his voice in his text. I'm feel awful, but Michael tells me it's okay. He says it's okay for me to take care of myself. I guess so, but I'm disappointed in myself. I should be able to "tough up" long enough to see a friend. Not today. I can't.
We're having network problems with our computers and yesterday I asked a computer/network guru friend if he could take a look. He said he had some things that he had to do, but that he would come soon. Today is the day.
He texted me and asked if this afternoon would be okay. I replied, "Sure! Thank you!". I am incredibly grateful for his help, but I wonder how in the world I'll pull myself together while he's here.
I have to clean off my desk (you don't even want to know about the foot high pile of "stuff" on my desk) so that he can sit there. I don't want to do it.
The first thing I find are two CD's Greg made for me and an inventory of my oxygen supplies that he wrote for me. I'm overwhelmed. I'm exhausted. I'm done. I leave the room, crying.
I crash on the couch and cry myself to sleep. After sleeping almost an hour, I feel a little better. I can do this.
"This is not a choice," I remind myself. I have to do this.
Back to the desk and I find a sentimental Mother's Day card from Greg with the envelope marked "Mother of Mine". I can hear his voice and again, I start to cry. I cry while I put "things to go downstairs" into a box. I'm still crying as I place "things to go to the yellow room" in another box. Greg is everywhere and I'm not ready to do this.
No more. Time for another break. There are bracelets that I need to ship today (I have an online shop) so... downstairs to my "studio" (so pretentious) to make the bracelets. Being busy helps. "I'm going to be okay," I tell myself.
Scott (my friend, not my son) texts me to see if he can come early. "Sure!," I texted back, taking a deep breath. Upstairs to say "hi" - and then back down to finish the bracelets and stay out of his way while he works - and regroup. When Scott finishes, he and Michael and I sit in the dining room and talk. It's okay. We talk about all kind of things and it helps. It's great to see him. He looks wonderful and I've missed him. I'm glad he came. I'm glad I cleaned off my desk.
So... I think I'm okay. Michael and I go out to run an errand and maybe grab something to eat. Three times before we get to the store, the tears come again. It doesn't last as long - it comes in waves, but I'm still feeling all the things Greg must have felt over the last 8 years? 15 years? The weight of it is crushing me.
Michael and I talk about going to Chili's and then the tears come again. I need to go home, so we stop and pick something up to take home for dinner - and I'm relieved to get home.
There have been a lot of tears over the past couple of years - tears of worry - tears of fear - tears from feeling Greg's palpable pain, but not being able to put words to the pain. I've felt the ache in his heart. I could see it in his eyes. I wanted to hold him like I did when he was little - assure him that it will all be okay - and make it go away, but I can't.
Today has been horrible. Because he is (always) my son, I'm grateful to know and understand what he was feeling, but the knowing breaks me in a way I've not known before.
Would it have helped if I'd understood earlier? Would it have made a difference if I'd known sooner how much trouble he was in? Maybe not, but I'll never know.
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