Yesterday was hard. I woke up telling myself I'd make it just any other day. But it wasn't just any other day. Yesterday was four months since I lost Ryan. I decided that I was going to get my kids some cupcakes. Even though they didn't know - no one but me knew - but they were for him. Instead of it being "four months since I lost him"...I tried to think of it as what would have been his four month birthday. A celebration instead of another memorial. It didn't really help as much as I thought it would - but it's always feels good to do something, anything, for Ryan. I finished something else for him this week. I had planned to paint the letters of his name to hang above his crib.....but his crib never got put together, he never slept in it, he never came home. I decided last week to paint them anyway. Now they're hanging in my room, next to his shelf where I have all of this things. Here is a picture:
So, yesterday morning I held it together pretty well. I didn't cry when I woke up. I didn't cry when I went to the store and got the cupcakes. So tell me why I cried when I had to change my pants??? BACK STORY: I got a pair of Khaki's when I started wearing maternity clothes - they eventually were too short because of the protruding belly, then I got another pair and right when I lost Ryan something got on them (weird stain, couldn't get it off)...so I decided to dye those pants when I went back to work (I've tried to dye them black about 10 times now, a few more dye jobs and maybe they will no longer be egg plant purple). So yesterday morning I put on my 3rd pair of Khakis and looked down and there's little spots all over the legs (bleach from mopping at work). I was pissed, took them off and sprayed them with stuff (hoping that even though I knew it was bleach it might have been something else that would come off). So then I put on my first pair of Khakis which fit better now because I no longer have a baby belly. I walked out the door, got in the car and looked down and there was a stain on these pants (it looked like someone drew on them). I'm not sure why but this made me start bawling. I think it was just the stress of the day and something going wrong. I cried for about ten minutes as I ran back into the house, put on black pants (I was wearing a blue shirt - I NEVER wear black with blue) and drove to work. Yes, I'm sure you are reading this thinking "so what" but I just didn't need something crappy happening. And it really bothers me when something happens to my maternity clothes - like they're linked to Ryan.
On another note, work this week was less stressful. Instead of 9-6 every day I'm now working 12-6 Monday-Thursday and 9-6 on Friday. Much easier. When I get to work they're already laying down...so for 2 and a half hours I pretty much just watch them sleep. The afternoons are easier than the mornings.
Only 21 more days until my vacation and only 13 more work days. Every summer we go to a cabin up in the mountains for a week. I'm almost hesitant to go this year - except less family will be there and I think the relaxation of just laying by a lake for a week might actually be good for me. The thing is, Ryan is supposed to be with me. We're supposed to have to take an extra car because were supposed to have so much baby stuff. I have the bedroom upstairs...I'm supposed to bring his playpen for him to sleep in, he's supposed to cry in the middle of the night and wake up my whole family. There will be no crying baby. This was supposed to be my summer. I was supposed to have 10 weeks off with my son. I was supposed to be able to spend my favorite holiday (4th of July) holding my son. Now I'm planning on hiding out in bed that day. I was supposed to bring my son on vacation...I don't know how I'm going to face the silence of that room without him there.
This is not my summer.
This is not my life. Or at least it doesn't seem like it. I feel like I'm living some stranger's life. You know how you sometimes hear people say they don't see themselves when they look in the mirror? Well that's how I feel. Theres some other person looking back at me. There's pain in the eyes of this person and tears that are always just on the edge of pouring down...there's anger written all over her face and you can tell she's withdrawn from everything around her - like nothing really matters much. That's not me. Or that's not who I was anyway.
Will I ever be me again?