Today, Monday 5th February 2018, I cried. Just once, but it came with force. A projectile cry.
I cried, and it was ugly, and guttural, and weirdly sounded like I was laughing hysterically.
I cried because my daughter had tested me at every turn this morning. Negotiating, soothing, disciplining. On repeat. At speed. An hour of my morning lost to this familiarity that today felt like it was breaking me.
I cried because I snapped, and threw her pigging My Little Pony hat back up the stairs, BECAUSE I’D HAD ENOUGH OF NOT BEING LISTENED TO. It fell between the banisters, and managed to be the exact weight that was going to be the final test on the nail holding up Gerald, the floral giraffe bust in our hallway, so he came tumbling down wiping out all and sundry beneath him. Including said daughter’s shoulder. I cried because her tiny face looked so scared and lost.
I cried because she then fell on the way to school. I ran to pick her up as she sobbed and screamed. Took in her torn tights and bloodied knee. Her muddy hands and face. Her steamed up glasses brimming with tears. Her sad wobble as we managed to walk the rest of the way. I cried because it had bled so much more. Because the teacher soothed her and I didn’t want to leave. I hadn’t said sorry to her enough.
I cried because I have a lot to do, and yet today, there is no pot of energy. The normal urge to do, to keep doing, doing, doing wasn’t there. I cried because I couldn’t even work out what I had to do, I just knew it was there. The mass of unfinished jobs.
I cried because my husband told me it was okay to do nothing today. Sit down, watch television. I cried because sometimes this is what I’m most scared of, the nothingness. When I have to feel the shape of the still, and truly know what is missing.
I cried because when I got home with the baby, he cried. He cried and cried. I pulled my neck picking him up, I yelped, he cried. I fed him, I cuddled him, I played with him. And yet still he cried. I couldn’t even take up the nothingness. In desperation, I tried to settle him down for a nap. He bit me hard, whilst feeding him, and that’s when I cried.
I cried and held him, and he no longer cried. He curled his podgy fist around my ear and silently gazed as I sobbed and sobbed. I said sorry and tried a lopsided, mascara streaked smile, he smiled back. I put him down, and we both cried together, a wall and a door now separating us. And just as he stopped and drifted off, I stopped.
I thought about this cry. Why it felt so uncommon. So loud and unwelcome. Why today when I have the same reasons to cry most days?
I thought about all the reasons I don’t cry. Yet, I can’t reason with it. I can’t find reasonable cause for all the days where I have energy, and find light in the mundane and yet fast pace of the everyday.
I thought that this cry felt alien when for some time, now in the past, it felt like my shadow.
Then I realised, everyday, RD’s absence fires tiny grenades. Small, insidious craters. With time I am learning how to absorb these more and more without flinching, sometimes without even conscious thought. I talk about him, and his space within us all, but not very much about the space he has left behind. Sometimes because I’m not very good at letting other people hold the weight of that emotion, and sometimes because I’m not even aware I’m holding it at all.
Today I cried, because it was everyday. Today I cried because it was the 5th of the month and a Monday. RD died on the 5th September 2016, a Monday. And that seems reason enough, for now.