Not really, sorry to mislead you. I stole it from a Britney Spears song, which has absolutely nothing to do with grieving and everything to do with avoidance. I realized, after reading one of my posts from yesterday, for about the fifth time, that something was missing. Ah, yes, Blogger ate 3/4 of the post I had saved. The part that it posted was originally written on the 5th. I forced myself to come down here and get to work on some of the writing, after managing to avoid sitting here for four days, and that's what happened. Eh, in the big scheme of things, who cares, but it is just so hard to do this. Words have rarely escaped me. Talking is not an issue. Writing is even less of an issue for me. I've written A+ term papers on books I've ready only the cover of because I have a gift of going on and on and on ad nauseam about mostly nothing. Sort of like that. And, now I'm avoiding the pain of writing, again, so I should just get on with it.
The whole 'you are strong' thing is intimidating. Few things intimidate me, but those that do, really get in my head and mess with me. I have always considered myself to be a very strong person. Physically, I'm much stronger than I look and anyone with whom I've ever had a war of words with knows that I'm not easily defeated. Stubborn, tenacious, strong...really, what's the difference, if you ask me? Partly, I do believe this to be a pride issue, but a lot of it has to do with my faith. I trust the one who calms the seas, even though I may be screaming to let me off the boat during the storm. When you have a reputation of being able to endure anything, though, it's as if 'anything' keeps finding your address and you have to continue to be strong because...well...you are strong.
However, eight freaking years of storms have made me seriously take pause. If this is what happens to strong people, no thank you. I do not want to be strong. I'm not kidding when I say eight years. This is the eighth year, which I already know to be the worst of them all. Really? Eight? In a ROW? Yes. In a row. I'm not superstitious, but I only ever remember breaking one mirror in my life. I'm talking monumental issues like death, separation, death, death, death and that should be plenty, but it's not all.
I remember a moment in 2007, not sure of the exact month and I can't remember my blog address for that one to go check, but I had something take me to my knees from the grief. I had been trusting God, much as I did with Brandon, and had it taken from me, through no choice of my own, exactly like Brandon and hell yes, I cried out to God all the questions that hit you.....WHY? How? Why? What will I do? How can the pain not split me open? And, I don't think I ever got an answer. That's not true, I got one answer, it was, "Wait." I'm not kidding. Totally inappropriate there, big daddy, but um ok. Are you sure? And, I heard correctly, something I am totally sure of because if I told you how many times that word showed up in how many places, you would be sure that I have God's number to His direct line. I do NOT, in case you're wondering.
As I was saying, I remember that grief. I will never forget those feelings. Truly, it scarred me. Grace prevented me from letting that wound dictate my life, but, like a scar, it is always there. It pales, though, in comparison to this grief. It's not even on the pain scale, comparatively. I have words for those days and for these I still do not. What I do know, is that it truly feels like I have lived with a tornado coming by my house every single year, sometimes more than once. Every year, I rebuild. I run back to God's arms and beg for help. I falter some when the building is slow, but I stay, sure that the same storm will not strike the same place, year after year. It has. And, THEN...to finish the place off, here comes Hurricane Katrina. Can you even imagine? Seven years of a tornado to your house and Hurricane Katrina in your eighth? In what world does that make sense and who is strong in the face of that? God. I do not get it.
So, I am scared. I don't do scared. It makes me angry. I spent seven years somewhere between trusting that everything would be neatly wrapped up and waiting for the other shoe to drop. ALL the shoes dropped. The feet, the shoe rack, all the boxes OH.MY.GOD. All of it. Someone who has always said that it can always be worse, there is always something to be thankful for, is damn afraid of what is around the corner. My heart is racing as I type this because of all the what-ifs. I am rounding up grief books like they'll stop printing them and hoping that someone will feed me a lie. Tell me I won't be changed (I hate change btw), tell me I'll 'get over it' even though I know it won't be true, tell me the sun will come out and stay out and that I won't be overcome with grief over losing my boy, 20 years from now. So far, no one is trying to sell that in a grief book, so I buy them anyway, hoping that I can accept the truth and hoping that I'm as strong as I hear I am.