I'm so grateful. Periods of normalcy are starting to peek through the clouds of pain. These last two days, I've actually been happy. Unburdened.
I guard that jealously. It's been so long since hugging my son was more than a duty, a going-through-the-motions thing. That I've gone to the store early to open (the only little bit of alone time I can carve out for myself) and not used that time to cry. That tears have not been One Wrong Word away.
Two days have sparked an addiction. I covet that feeling. I did and didn't know how much I missed laughing, and having energy. I want more of it.
The one thing that is still aching, my last hurtle (ironic, that it's called a hurt-le), is my fear of going back to church. Not of church, I've been back twice since Leila died. It's more about seeing the babies again. Two in particular, Piper and Lucy. Their mommies are my friends, and we were all pregnant together, having little girls. Now we've all had our babies, and I'm no longer part of that club. I've graduated to a new club...lucky me. I'm afraid that I'll see these two women with their two beautiful little girls, and just lose it. Just thinking about it, I'm crying. How much worse will it be to stand there with them, chatting away, desperately trying to pretend I'm not dying inside?
And Yasar doesn't understand. He's a patient man, but he really, really wants to go to church. He's gone without me a few times, but mostly if I don't go, he stays home, too.
This weekend I breathe a sigh of relief. We'll be out of town, so the pressure of church won't loom on me. I'll get to practice my new happiness, hopefully get so familiar with it that ~maybe~ I'll barely remember my grief?
Yeah, wishful thinking. But it doesn't hurt to try.