Three Words

Chapter 2 - Tris

One year.  It's been one year since Matthew died and my world fell apart.  My biggest problem though, is that I can't let my daughter know how much of a wreck I truly am. I've had to be strong for her, to let her see that while it is ok to grieve, we have to still get up and move on. It's hard to tell her those words over and over again, when I barely listen to them myself.  No one seems to understand the weight of my grief.  How nearly every night I've cried myself to sleep.  It hardly happens now, but I think it's due to my body growing numb from the pain.  I sometimes wish it would, though.  During those first few weeks, after crying so hard my throat felt raw, I was guaranteed at least six hours of uninterrupted sleep.  Now, I'm lucky to get three or four hours. 

It's not for lack of trying.  I've been to some of the best doctors in the area, but they all pretty much said the same thing.  "You need to control your grief.  I believe that is the root of the problem as to why you have nightmares or barely get any sleep.  Have you thought about seeing a councilor?  I can make a recommendation.  Oh, and here's a prescription to help you sleep in the meantime until you can get things sorted out."

Pills.  That always seems to be the answer to someone's problem.  More pills.  Now don't get me wrong, there are circumstances where it's appropriate, but I knew what my problem was.  My husband was dead and without the feeling of his safety, my body was on high alert.  There was no one to watch over Zoe and me.  That job was now firmly sitting on my already overly burdened shoulders.  I confided my feelings to Christina when she noticed about three months after Matthew's death, the dark circles that makeup was having trouble covering.  She offered to stay with us for a while to see if that helped, but after a month of happy, peppy Christina, I thanked her for trying, but I would try other venues. 

**********

I hated the idea of talking to a complete stranger about how you feel, and then proceeding to pay them obscene amounts of money when you're done.  Others I'm sure have found it helpful to spill their darkest secrets and insecurities to someone that can't say anything or might help them sort out their problems.  I was just having a hard time seeing this working for me.   However, it was a last ditch effort, and I was willing to try anything. 

Dr. Woodly was a kind looking woman in her late fifties.  She asked the typical getting to know you questions, but then pushed to the heart of the matter.  She had told me that she had lost her mother to cancer when she was sixteen and that it took her a long time to accept her death and heal.  I tried not to slam my hand on the couch arm I was sitting in and scream that it wasn't the same thing, but felt that might warrant me more unwanted drugs and a trip to the psych unit at the hospital.  Instead I tried very calmly to tell her that while there were similarities between the two situations, mine was not the same.  She then proceeded to ask about Matthew and I's life, and why the two situations were different.  When I finally reached the portion about my crushing grief since losing Mathew, the session was almost up.

"Tris I hate to stop you there, but I do think you have made great progress today.  Now, I'm going to give you some homework until next week.  I want you to start writing down positive things that you see on a day to day basis.  It can be anything, as simple your daughter volunteering to help with the dishes, to someone on the news saving someone from a burning car.  Write down anything and everything that you feel is positive and we'll discuss some of it next time."

I resisted the urge to roll my eyes at the thought of having to perform such a mundane exercise, but then thought I would have plenty of time to do it since I didn't sleep anyway.  "Ok.  I'll give it a shot." 

**********

Today I celebrated my birthday by laying flowers on my husband's grave with Zoe, trying desperately to keep it together while she wept into my chest.  I don't know how long we stood there, but it eventually became too much.  We went back home, but I knew nothing awaited me there to ease any of my pain.  My mother and father called at one point in the afternoon, offering to bring cake, but I declined.  It was just too soon.