trauma + triggers
"Where are you supposed to go when you're home is a trigger?"
Not every inch of the premises feels tainted but most of it is. Maybe I should sage it or something? Maybe I should scrub the floors extra hard or rearrange the dining room another way and open the windows?
Me to Me: It's not going to make you feel better, I hope you know that...
Still Me: *gets the broom*
I never thought that I would turn into Monica Gueller, cleaning her grief away but here we are. I was hoping I would have a phenomenal breakthrough in my writing since experiencing this deep loss or idk something resilient or brave but no.
I feel okay. We're a couple weeks into the healing process and it inevitably still hurts like it rightfully should. There were neatly folded clothes of his in the laundry room which didn't help, organic groceries in the pantry that no one has moved and his meds that no one really knows what to do with... It's like he's invisible. Part of him still lives here, but he's not here anymore. His hospital bed by the dining room window was replaced by photos of him all down the sill and there's now a couch there. It's nice to sit there sometimes and meditate, other times I just say "good night uncle" to nothing like he's still there and other nights I grab my peppermint tea and make my way straight upstairs and pretend he was never there...
Don't look up, don't look up
I feel guilty when I forget and sad when I remember. There's no winning and both options equally hurt.
Pick your poison I guess
this loss is traumatic. this loss feels like a murder. like we pulled the short end of the stick in the game of life and here we freakin' are. it feels like someone took him in the middle of the night. it feels like we are being punished for something. Is this karma?
When I close my eyes I still see all the blood on the floor...I see him looking up at me...I see his chipped tooth and my mother in shock...screaming...
You have to sleep busime you have an 8am class tm
I close my eyes and I see red. I close my eyes even harder and I see myself at the bottom of the stairs with him. I go from me at the stairs and the me one the floor pressing a tissue to his busted lip and rubbing his back.
Uncle can you hear me...the ambulance is going to be here soon...they're going to take care of you...we're going to take care of you...okay?
This back and forth goes on till I get dizzy and open my eyes. I emailed my therapist to see if she could fit me in and she said yes. For those who don't go to therapy just know that "yes" means "I'll see you in 3+ weeks". I can't lie I'm happy I booked it, now I just hope I stick with it.
the triggers are endless. the reminders are there. everything about our house that was subtle is now loudly reminding me what happened here.
This is where I found it he had cancer. This is where his hospital bed was. This is where he fell because he could no longer hold his balance and this is where he took his last breath...
A dining room can't just go back to being a dining room after something like this happens. The single couch he would sit on is no longer just a chair. The organic groceries we got hoping to get more meals out of for him isn't just food that's up for grabs. Everything is tainted. everything carries weight. my home is tainted. It makes me want to move back into my old house (even saying "old" feels odd because it oddly still feels like my home. after all 3 months ago I was peacefully living there). simpler times. simpler times when no one was terminally ill with 4 weeks to live.
there is not a day I forget nor do I think I will ever (that's not the goal here) but I would like to not hate my house. I would really also like for him to be alive. and finally I would like to sleep. I could really use some sleep