scars

Five months have passed and my thoughts seem to reside mostly here, among the present again. I don’t know how it happened. One day (recently), I realized I fell asleep without mascara stained pillow cases greeting me in the morning for nearly a week. Some of the time, I pretend you’re deployed. It’s easier to breathe that way. I can go day to day thinking I’ll see you at Christmas. Military life has conditioned my mind. Perhaps that’s counterproductive, but it’s holding off the waves.

And of course I know your gone. Because when my mind finds its way back to the hell of April 12th . . I’m trapped inside a black void. It feels rather impossible to free myself from the thought of your pain and final moments alone. Nothing haunts me quite the same as your torment. Those thoughts become a trap.

There are times I find myself day dreaming. I’m in your truck. It’s the place I expect to talk to you again in my dreams. I keep thinking if my mind stays here, in the passenger seat consciously, there’s a chance the subconscious will find you here too.  I long to have the tough conversation

As if it’s not too late.

But, in so many ways, I failed you. I’m your big sister. I was your first friend in this life. I can read your face and know your thoughts. and YES, I knew you were depressed. I knew (to some extent) what she was doing. At the time, I didn’t know the full ramification and brutality she manifested in  your life. I knew we needed a heart to heart. I knew I would tell you better things are just ahead. And all that being said,

I was too late.

That’s when I really crash. I feel like I’m drowning in those moments.

Sometimes, I go home on my lunch break. And hidden within the walls of my home (alone)  I SCREAM. As loud as possible. Until it hurts, I scream. Nana says sometimes it is the only way to find release. On days when no one understands this pain, or how it feels to survive suicide or wants to hear me talk about the shadows of hell I’m running from, I find myself taking her advice. Driving home, walking into my closet, hitting the floor and screaming; releasing.

Like the old man said, that’s grief. It finds you in waves. Sometimes the water crashes at your feet. Sometimes you’ll feel like you’re drowning in the wreckage. And then sometimes, you find a way to stay afloat. And though the waves are building, I’m managing the raft.

 

 

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