How many times now have I started composing in my head, keeping this long, heartfelt, eloquent dialogue going with all the same muster and motivation that causes me to sit down here and take on the satisfying clickity-clack of the keyboard as I pour it all out? Too many to count. But I seem to be caught in a hiccuping cycle. A whirlwind of nothingness. What do I have new to say?? It all seems to be blah blah blah blah blah.....ok ok ok ok ok I suck it sucks I hurt it hurts Oh wait ok ok ok ok ok ......over...and over...and over....Doesn't it get rather boring to read? I get disgusted when I go to write it. It all sounds the same, no matter how concise and pertinent it seemed in my mind mere moments ago. When it comes time to put the pedal to the medal, I got nothin'.
I do not know how it is possible, but I hurt now more than I quite possibly ever have since he died. Sharp, stabbing, debilitating waves of pain that come on suddenly and without warning. Before it seemed to have triggers...something he ate, something we did, some small part that triggers the memory of the greater whole...but now..its completely on its own. He is gone and I feel like an idiot that the realization of that can still...STILL...capture me with breathless and agonized surprise. I miss him now. Its almost as if the first year I was just learning how to know he was not coming back. Learning how to assimilate all that illness and suffering into my being and let it be contained there now that I am no longer living it...learning to put that away. And now in the new territory, I come into the missing him. His posture. His antics. The slight tension in his throat that made his voice sound stiff and too old for his body when he was trying hard to communicate something. His skinny arms hugging me. How his often silent demeanor contained within him a fantasy life and fantastical sense of creativity that was stunning when he let it come out. His slender hands. His tender heart. The way he wanted to learn to make chicken, but when I let him and taught him how to clean a whole chicken and then cut it into parts, he looked a little green and mused that he really might just be a vegetarian when he grew up....and he meant it. How we got lobster and made it at my mom's house because he wanted to try it, but how he could not eat it once he saw them crawling around and over one another in the kitchen sink at Mom's. I am breathless with missing him. It never, ever leaves me. Already he becomes a little fuzzy to Alex, who was 8 at the time Joseph died. And I realize, Alex will remember more being one of two sons than the youngest of three. And that just shatters my heart in my chest. I have all these pictures of Joseph and Nick, my little dynamic duo, my towhead and redhead...toddlers together, preschoolers together, a lifetime of challenges and joys ahead of me as they grew. I mourn that future. I mourn that past. I mourn both what was before...and what was supposed to have been.
I am funneling that as best I can into school...that sense of loss and need to find some kind of meaning in it. Statistics class is going well and I like both the class and the teacher. I am optimistic so far...I am doing well.