“Lord.”
Shedding out of my three-day-old outfit I get in the shower and welcome the warm water to fall over my body. Standing under the spray I close my eyes and suddenly out of nowhere a scream rips through me and my fists pound against the shower walls. I hit the walls hard and my eyes remain closed. My mind is blank and it’s as though I’m having an out-of-body experience. There’s supposed to be different stages of grief and for the past nine months I’ve stayed on stage four; depression.
In the weeks following Evan’s death I made dinner for us and set the table. I refused to eat and waited for him to walk through the doors. I checked my phone and called him, wondering where he was and if he was okay. Then anger came and I tore apart my house. I took a knife and stabbed the couch, over and over again, screaming and crying, asking God why He had to take away Evan from us. This anger stayed for over a month until Tonya decided to stay with me for a week and kept me busy. It helped and for a moment I thought I was going to be okay until I skipped bargaining and jumped right into depression. I couldn’t eat or see anyone. I pushed away the people who mattered and had my own pity party. I stopped going to work and received a call from the principal. I let the call go to voicemail and refused to listen to the message until Tonya came over with Walker, Principal of Webster Thomas High School, where I worked for two years teaching, and showed students how to fall in love with literature. After Evan’s death they saw I was such a mess, Walker gave me some more time off and wants me to return in September. I didn’t respond. I just nodded.
It’s now June and I’m not going to work. As much as I hate feeling like a failure I can’t do it. There are so many parts of my life I miss and want back. The struggle to start living again without Evan seems impossible.
“Please come back to me!” I scream and fall on my knees, my head down and the sobs wracking my body. “Evan . . .”
I don’t hear the bathroom door open. I don’t see Mason open the shower curtains and I certainly don’t feel him picking me up from the shower floor and taking me to my bed to lay me down. I absently watch him grab a towel and wrap it around my wet body. I don’t say anything. I lie there, on my bed, numb and cold.
“Hey, Care,” he softly says, kneeling down and gently rubbing my arm. “I’m here if you need me okay?” I don’t nod. I stare at him and he doesn’t push me. Instead he gets up and walks out of my bedroom, but leaves the door open. I watch him walk down the stairs and turn on my other side and place my hands under my head.
“Evan,” I whisper, “I miss you.”
I wait for his response.
And wait.
And wait.
There’s nothing.
Mason doesn’t come back into the bedroom and for that I’m grateful. I don’t want to hear that I should be feeling better or I should be doing something more. One day the pain will go away. One day I’ll be able to stand tall and enjoy life again.
One day.
Whoever said that can burn in hell. Whoever said that has never experienced pain so hurtful that your world is gray and black. The pain sears through your body, capturing your heart and soul, slowly twisting the love and air, leaving you alone and dead.
Dead.
That’s how I feel. This will never be okay. I will never be okay. I’ll never be able to let go of the images from that night. I’ll never be able to stop hearing the flat line when Mason turned off the machines. I’ll never be able to love again.
Love.
Love.
LOVE!
Fuck love. Fuck it all. Love is a bitch and she isn’t done with me yet. She watches me from afar and makes me angry and sad. Love is supposed to give you butterflies and make you happy. This isn’t love. I lost love. Love is never coming back. I’ll never get to feel the intense love shooting through my body, reverberating through and making my heart whole. Love doesn’t want me.
The woman
Shedding out of my three-day-old outfit I get in the shower and welcome the warm water to fall over my body. Standing under the spray I close my eyes and suddenly out of nowhere a scream rips through me and my fists pound against the shower walls. I hit the walls hard and my eyes remain closed. My mind is blank and it’s as though I’m having an out-of-body experience. There’s supposed to be different stages of grief and for the past nine months I’ve stayed on stage four; depression.
In the weeks following Evan’s death I made dinner for us and set the table. I refused to eat and waited for him to walk through the doors. I checked my phone and called him, wondering where he was and if he was okay. Then anger came and I tore apart my house. I took a knife and stabbed the couch, over and over again, screaming and crying, asking God why He had to take away Evan from us. This anger stayed for over a month until Tonya decided to stay with me for a week and kept me busy. It helped and for a moment I thought I was going to be okay until I skipped bargaining and jumped right into depression. I couldn’t eat or see anyone. I pushed away the people who mattered and had my own pity party. I stopped going to work and received a call from the principal. I let the call go to voicemail and refused to listen to the message until Tonya came over with Walker, Principal of Webster Thomas High School, where I worked for two years teaching, and showed students how to fall in love with literature. After Evan’s death they saw I was such a mess, Walker gave me some more time off and wants me to return in September. I didn’t respond. I just nodded.
It’s now June and I’m not going to work. As much as I hate feeling like a failure I can’t do it. There are so many parts of my life I miss and want back. The struggle to start living again without Evan seems impossible.
“Please come back to me!” I scream and fall on my knees, my head down and the sobs wracking my body. “Evan . . .”
I don’t hear the bathroom door open. I don’t see Mason open the shower curtains and I certainly don’t feel him picking me up from the shower floor and taking me to my bed to lay me down. I absently watch him grab a towel and wrap it around my wet body. I don’t say anything. I lie there, on my bed, numb and cold.
“Hey, Care,” he softly says, kneeling down and gently rubbing my arm. “I’m here if you need me okay?” I don’t nod. I stare at him and he doesn’t push me. Instead he gets up and walks out of my bedroom, but leaves the door open. I watch him walk down the stairs and turn on my other side and place my hands under my head.
“Evan,” I whisper, “I miss you.”
I wait for his response.
And wait.
And wait.
There’s nothing.
Mason doesn’t come back into the bedroom and for that I’m grateful. I don’t want to hear that I should be feeling better or I should be doing something more. One day the pain will go away. One day I’ll be able to stand tall and enjoy life again.
One day.
Whoever said that can burn in hell. Whoever said that has never experienced pain so hurtful that your world is gray and black. The pain sears through your body, capturing your heart and soul, slowly twisting the love and air, leaving you alone and dead.
Dead.
That’s how I feel. This will never be okay. I will never be okay. I’ll never be able to let go of the images from that night. I’ll never be able to stop hearing the flat line when Mason turned off the machines. I’ll never be able to love again.
Love.
Love.
LOVE!
Fuck love. Fuck it all. Love is a bitch and she isn’t done with me yet. She watches me from afar and makes me angry and sad. Love is supposed to give you butterflies and make you happy. This isn’t love. I lost love. Love is never coming back. I’ll never get to feel the intense love shooting through my body, reverberating through and making my heart whole. Love doesn’t want me.
The woman
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