The following was written on Monday. I didn't have the strength to finish. I thought I could finish it yesterday and then today. But I can't. I can't because this isn't going to end. I feel like i will feel this way forever.
I'm sitting here in my office that will only be mine for another two and a half weeks; sobbing.
I should probably go home, but that would involve talking to someone and quite frankly, I just want to crawl under my desk.
I'm not coping well.
I really thought I was. Right up until the precise moment that I realized I'm not.
And I have no clue what to do.
Worse is that I don't have the energy to care.
Save for my beautiful child, my days are dark and lonely and impossibly hard.
I try desperately to make Grace's life normal and routine. But I'm failing miserably because I'm in a constant state of flux - a state of moving from one responsibility to the next without joy or relief. I force myself to prepare meals and do the laundry. It seems that anything I clean is almost instantaneously cluttered and the sprawl of stuff creeps into other rooms I'm trying not to use in an effort to contain the chaos. I haven't kept after Grace to tidy either. I can barely keep after myself. So, toys don't get put away and there is a never ending stream of size 5 skirts, poorly matched tops and too small (but out of the question to part with) tights littering the house from the countless wardrobe and mood changes of the spritely little diva I live with.
She's doing what she should be doing; creating and immersing herself in happy, elaborate and fantastical worlds. However, I know that she's also hiding from me. Her playing is rescuing her from the sullen and "fighting to exist" state that her mother is in.
And I hate that I've done that to her. I hate that the death of her grandmother has to strip her of her innocence. I hate that play has become an escape.
Thursday, March 17, 2011 at 8:00AM