I’ve spent the past two days fighting anxiety and panic.
Breath caught mid-throat, chest pounding, sobs threatening, head throbbing-just like that first day 47 months ago.
A series of events broke down the defense I’ve carefully constructed that helps me make it through most days without tears.
I did pretty good.
I managed a family dinner, church and a covered dish luncheon with no one any the wiser.
Underneath it all I was barely hanging on.
I love that my words give expression to my feelings, thoughts and experience and also help others give expression to theirs. But sometimes I’m afraid that the people closest to me think that because I can write about it, I must be a bit beyond it-detached, clinical, untouched.
Nothing could be further from the truth.
I feel every. single. thing.
My heart hurts like every other bereaved parent. My brain struggles to comprehend the reality of my son’s death and a lifetime without his earthly companionship. I fight for my faith. I cry out to God. I feel lonely, misunderstood, abandoned, frightened, and so, so sad.
I am fragile.
Like moth’s wings.
The slightest touch threatens to undo me.