If I had a dollar for every time I open the notepad on my phone ready to release emotional floodgates- only to find my thoughts are somehow illegible the second a keyboard is at my finger tips- I wouldn’t be rich, but at least I would have a visual interpretation of how unexplainable missing Boston continues to be. How something I was moments before so sure of it felt palpable can turn to sand in my hands and just disappear. It makes me want to cry. Sometimes I do cry. Not so much at my inconvenient loss for words, but because even if I could get it all out in front of me, it’s still inside of me too. It never goes away.
There is a part of me that is pristinely aware of where I’m at, but there is an equally prominent part that pulls me in opposite directions at all times. Lately that part of me is exhausted. Fed up. Weary. Defeated.
How is it possible that I deal with the full spectrum of emotions on a daily basis yet can’t make sense of how I feel? It’s kind of like an out of body experience. Like I can look down at myself and see everything that I know for certain around me. I can see what I’ve overcome and worked through. I can see all the ways I’ve learned to cope and be gentle with myself and mind- but I also see all of this other... shit... for lack of a better term. Literal shit. And there’s no where else to put it. It’s making me confuse progress with unbearable ‘To-do’s’ and has me loathing the truth behind “Healing isn’t linear.”
There’s been a multitude of times I’ve found that very statement comforting, however, most recently it makes me want to scream. Why can’t it be linear!? Why can’t there be some small infographic guide I could reference every time my mind is swarming with confusion over this awful thing called grieving.
Right now there is nothing I want more than clearly definable healing. I want answers. I want definition. I literally ache to see what is going on inside of me as words in front of me so I can stare at it’s existence. I want to memorize it the way it has memorized me. But I know that’s not how this works, and this is my tragedy; I fully understand even though I have come so far, the primal part of me will remain restless and unsatisfied. It is that part of me that cultivates my flustered speechlessness and leaves me dumb-founded because there are actually no words for how living with out Boston feels. Everything about it is a messy mind boggling paradox.
It all feels like a figment of my imagination, like it was just yesterday, but also like a lifetime has passed all at once. His absence drains me of my will, but sparks something in me that I swear could move mountains. Losing him led me down a path of destruction, but also to saving myself. I ache to see his face, but looking through his pictures is too painful. I know that he is with me, all while simultaneously watching the day’s since I last saw him turn into years. No matter how many sweet signs he sends, I still plead with the Universe to tell me where exactly in the sky my son is at. 68 days with him changed every single day of the rest of my life. How even though I have lived 1396 days with out him- he is still at the core of everything I do. As his mom my role is to guide him through life, instead his spirit is guiding me. How yearning for the same baby boy somehow feels different every year. Being his mom is my deepest pain, but my ultimate joy.
Boston’s birthday was on Wednesday. He would have turned 4. I’ve remained l steadfast in my attempts to be grateful for living with the spirit of my chubby cheeked baby boy- but on these special days I can’t help but imagining walking outside, throwing myself on the ground, and thrashing around while sobbing and screaming. This is the only thing that could possibly depict how it feels to watch the calendar mark another year with part of my heart on the wrong side of Heaven.
And to my darling Bosty,
I still love you more every day.
