I wrote this a couple of days ago, and at the end I decided not to post it, now I’ve changed my mind again. I’d like to add to any survivor of tragedy that it does get better. We are still kicking, breathing, and living. Whatever they’ve done to us has simply made us stronger. Each day, month, year gets better.
I am in bed, because it is the only place I want to be right now. The tears are coming in small bouts, thankfully. At some point I will break down and let the years of hurt and pain come out. Only to lock it away again October 1st. But for now I will write.
I will write because I am tired of calling my therapist once a year. It just feels to ridiculous. I will write because I don’t want to burden my family and my friends with my feelings. They have already hurt enough for me, they have forgotten September I will write because I need to make sure my baby boy has his mother and not this husk of the broken woman I am right now.
The month of September is a trigger for me. Usually I am fine until it hits double digits. Sometimes, (like this year) I can’t figure out why I feel off. Last night I couldn’t sleep, and I didn’t know why. I start scrambling in my head trying to figure out what is wrong, because everything seems to be fine, good actually. Wanna hear something crazy? At this point seven years later, I can’t even remember the actual anniversary date.
I just looked at September’s calendar in 2005, and I don’t know if it happened on 9/10/05 or 9/17/05. At this point I am guessing the tenth because today seems to be hitting me hard. Subconsciously I know, I guess. Along with everything else I don’t remember but do remember. Suppression is a bitch. I don’t understand how a date that destroyed my life as I knew it, and brought me the wonderful little boy I have now can be forgotten.
I will go through every stage of the grieving process again. Hating myself for having to revisit them again. I’ve gotten through denial, now that I actually know what is wrong with me. I will go back and forth between anger and depression. Angry because I hate that man and what he did to me, obviously. Depression because I wish it had never happened. Which leads to more depression, if it had never happened I wouldn’t have my son. Then I start questioning, if I wish it didn’t happen, do I really love my son. Back to anger. I hate that this man whom I’ve seen once in my life outside of a courtroom, made something so beautiful as making a child, and having and raising a child something so negative and burdensome, and full of heartache.
Eventually acceptance will come as it always does. Every year when I feel like this, just low, and sad, and in desperate need of the justice I will never see. I just wish I could skip the whole month. Then this song comes to me and I listen to it.
Normally I would be writing in the journal, but I it is not in bed with me, and as mentioned before I don’t want to get up, so I get to share these thoughts with the whomever reads.