The Half of It

Some nights are just harder than others. Not shocking.

But tonight’s taken me back to the beginning all over again. Back to the good when Kamren was home with me and Marques. Back to the horrifying when it was time to call 911. And back to the anger, hurt, frustration, confusion, resentment, etc., that followed.

I’ve told myself this is normal, and so it is. Or so it is for me and my life. The feeling of disconnection is maddening, but so is the feeling of normalcy. Sharing my life so publicly, so intimately, is freeing but so weighted too.

The saying, ‘you don’t know the half of it,’ is what comes to mind. The ‘half of it,’ doesn’t even describe the half of that.

Sitting her looking around my house, impeccably decorated and perfectly organized, I know I have a great space. I hear it from everyone who steps inside of here, followed by their request to have me redecorate their own. But it’s so opposite of how frantic and broken I feel internally. It’s what my life looks like to the outside world, or the people watching it through the Facebook lens. It’s literally ‘the half of it.’

I had to stop myself just now from ripping portraits and paintings from the walls out of frustration for Kamren’s absence. I walked past the tree my favorite mugs hang on in the kitchen and felt every nerve in my body heighten as I pictured throwing the entire thing, including all 6 mugs currently hanging, across the adjacent living room. The idea of them crashing and breaking, shattering mostly, and reflecting the exact moment my heart did the same, was enticing to me. It’s an internal high to match the confusion. An upper for the downer, a fight until the nerve endings die altogether.

Sometimes I have to re-read notes and letters to myself, from myself, to make it to the other side of nights like these. It’s the equivalent to emotional cutting. It’s a release. Maybe a purging, or a push.

It’s a survival.

I’ve copied a piece from a piece I contributed to almost two years ago. It’s odd to me, how much hope I had when writing this 10 months after giving Kam back to the universe. But I suppose that hope was always a very crucial part of my survival back then.

So, Dear Me:

-Reread and remember. You’ve got a lot left to do out there.

I will wait for the sun with you. For the light to come in and shine on the deepest corners of your currently broken soul.
So where do you go from here? When everything for your child has been handled? Squared away, letters both crossed and dotted.
 Except we know it really hasn’t. Everything has not been done, because there is no done to this. This is a forever kind of love. A forever kind of healing. A forever of mornings when you intentionally choose to keep living. 
 And people will ask you why. Why you haven’t chosen to take your own life. Why you smile through the daily obligations, begrudgingly keeping one foot moving in front of the other. And no matter how hard you try, or how many times you might try, you’ll never be able to fully explain your why to their comprehension. Because you have seen the reality of your worst nightmare take shape in your life. You have been the calm, you have been the storm. You live in the eye of it now. So your why won’t make sense if they don’t know the storm personally. And as much as you may want them to understand, in all honesty, you’re glad that they don’t. You hope they never will. You might feel like you’ve become misery, but you don’t want company. Not in this.
Because you know your why. You understand it fully for the first time. It took you 20 plus years, but now you’re here. Now you know.
Love is why.


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