It’s Friday. My husband and I are both home from work. We are playing with Elbow. She’s so sweet. She’s learning so much. She’s so much fun. We are exhausted, but we play. We do silly dances. We read stories. We go outside and look at birds and flowers and planes and cars. Each moment is savored. We have dinner. She tries everything. We laugh. We make animal sounds. We watch and take in our beautiful daughter, who seems to get farther away from “baby” every day.
Elbow goes to sleep.
It’s Friday night. My husband and I are alone with our thoughts. There is no work day to prepare for. For a time, the house is silent. Both of us feeling the weight of the “human being” costume we have been wearing drop to the floor. There we are. Exposed. Grieving parents with no reason to hold back. So we don’t. We try to escape, but it is impossible. The rush of grief that we have controlled all week, the flood of emotion we held in whilst wearing our “human” costume is all released. We cry until we can’t breathe. We don’t speak. We don’t have to. I know. He knows. There are no words for it anyway. But we are together. Our pain is the same, but different. Our reasons for crying are the same, but different. But we are together.
I catch myself thinking about the people who I have spoken to, worked with, ran into over the course of the week. I wonder if I seemed human to them. Did they buy it? Did I play my role well? It’s method acting. You have to be committed. You have to believe it or the audience will see right through you.
Why am I acting like everything is fine?
Because if all the crap that goes through your heart and mind each moment was out there for the world to see, they’d think you were nuts!
What do I care if they think I am nuts? This is too much to hold in. I can’t do it forever.
Do you really think expressing the grief, pain, despair, sorrow, and anger you feel moment to moment would be any easier?