Missing My Brokenness

September 2, 2019

Remembering the version of me that couldn't go to the very concert I was at, brought me to tears.

 

A friend offered me Zac Brown Band tickets shortly after Leyden passed. I remember a feeling of terror.

 

Crowds.
Music.
Happiness.


The world going on as if nothing had happened.

Meanwhile my world was shattered.

 

That version of me couldn't remember my coffee order, forgot if I had washed my hair in the shower, picked up the same wrinkled clothes off the floor each day and would drive in silence because noise was overwhelming.

 

That version of me sat on the ground because it felt safer. Drank too much wine and counted down until 5pm when I would put on Seinfeld and settle up in Leyden's rocker with cheese, pepperoni and projects to do for her before crawling into bed, surrounded by Leyden's things, relieved I had survived another day.

 

That version of me woke up every single morning wondering if this hell was actually real and when I realized it was- didn't want to live. And decided I didn't deserve to enjoy life with out Leyden. I had failed her.

 

I may have been listening to music at Fenway last night but I could see, hear and feel that version of me.

 

In a way, I missed that version of me.
And I was proud of her.

 

I saw a warrior who chose life. Who had the courage to get up every single day and trust it would eventually get better. Who had the strength to be vulnerable and to ask for help. A soul that was scared, lonely and accepted that all I could do, was the best within my capacity, each day.

 

I wanted to tell that version of me that it is possible to smile again and she could find her own voice to be Leyden's mom.
I wanted to take away her excruciating pain.

 

I knew all too well, even if I could have told her in those moments, she wouldn't have been ready to listen.

 

And moving through the pain was necessary to grow.

As I danced and sang along last night, I held my Leyden necklace a little more tightly and thought about how we don't ever get over it, grief doesn't get any smaller. That version of me, is still a part of me.

It's just not the only part of me, anymore.

 

A reminder to every soul fighting- you got this.
One day at a time.
I promise.

 

 

 

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