Rainy days and Mondays, but its Tuesday

I am having a down swing the last couple of days. I don't even bother putting on make up...may not be very pretty, but it frees me up to cry at will without it being quite so obvious. I guess you could say I am doing a fair amount of wallowing. I have no idea what makes the urge to do that come and go the way it does. Some days I truck along doing pretty good, still missing him, but with an inner strength that feels a lot like stubborn pride. And then the wind just leaves my sails and it is as if I realize it was all a ruse, trying to fake out both myself and everyone else. I listen to the music from Les Miserables and Variations on Pachebel and the tears just come and come and come, mostly in the car. Its not the same exhausting slam that it used to be. It is more static and constant, like simply turning to view my life from a slightly different light angle, like one of those billboards that look one way and when you drive closer they suddenly look different. Always there, just not always showing. Its showing the last few days. It isn't cold outside but it looks it and that is about all it takes to bring it all back again. The rain makes me want to hold him. I had pure, poignant visions this morning that found root in a desire somewhere in the middle of my chest, down into my soul, of wanting to hold him again, to rock him, to tell him I'm sorry Baby over and over again, to take all his suffering into myself. I wish it had been less horrifying. When I think of all the pain and terror and loneliness he suffered my heart breaks all over again. And I can't seem sometimes to stop myself from thinking about it. Last night was the first wakeful night I have had in a while. I just could not make the images stop. It literally feels like a hole in the middle of my chest, down into my womb...as if I might peer downard and look inside and through myself to the nothingness residing there, or perhaps just back into the past that once filled that space. I have two new books I am reading. A Grief Observed by C.S. Lewis and Lament for a Son (whose author escapes me at the moment). One is angry, one is mystified with sadness and loss. Both apply. Both have so much truth in them that I can only read them a few pages at a time. I wish everyone had to read them. I wish everyone could somehow understand. I get so angry at how isolating this is, that nobody else can feel this pain. Even other parents who have lost cannot feel MY pain. Their pain is similar, but it is theirs. This is mine. I am not at the point yet where the sacredness of that gives enough value to offset the loneliness and desolation of it. The idea of not hurting anymore is abhorrent to me. I do not know what I want. I would not have wanted him to keep suffering. I would not want his passing to pass through me without this agony. I would not want to succumb to this darkness. I wish I knew where he is. I wish I knew how he feels. I wish I knew who he is now, if he remembers us, if the pain is gone, if he is out there, feeling and watching me though I can't feel and watch him. Some mornings (this was one of them) I am just stunned to realize once again I woke up and found it was not all a dream.