Damaged goods

I am so sick of this. Sick of being heart broken, sick of being worried, sick of living without my baby, sick of wondering which little flecks of dust in the urn that holds my son were his eyes, his heart, his nose, his hair...

The counselor I saw for a few months after Boston passed told me that around the 6 month mark of a loved ones death is when it gets truly hard, and is also unfortunately around the time when even the closet people to you seem to scatter back into their own lives and are far from being there when you need it. I had no clue how right she was at the time. I feel like I am constantly screaming "Please help me!" but not a single sound comes out. I am damaged, and that is far from a good feeling.

Damaged as in I am a broken soul, damaged as in nothing is easy, damaged as in how could anyone ever love me knowing the surplus of how broken I already am. I am the broken lamp in the corner who's plug in doesn't work, the one that no one wants to deal with. Why would they? I don't even work. There is no light here...

I love my son. So much so that I'm not even sure how I made it to 22 without him. Which makes living the next however many years a "journey" I am very reluctant to take, but I really have no choice. Quite a few people have said to me "Oh you're so young. You'll figure it out." All I can think in my head the whole time is that yes, I am young. Which to me only means having to live even longer without my baby. 

I don't want to be the woman who can hardly leave her home because of the anxiety that now haunts me. I don't want to be the woman who's heart breaks anytime someone asks me how many children I have. I don't want to be the woman that's hard to love. I don't want to be the woman who's baby died, but I am. 

"One day you will see me again

Once more within your sight

I'll be right there to walk you in

I'm waiting in the light"