This is the twelfth day like this
Nov. 24th, 2017 10:28 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
cosmolinguistOne of the things I cried about after Chris died was that I wouldn't always be crying.
I knew I'd get better, that life is demanding (especially when you're planning to get married and emigrate in less than two months), that people are resilient and that time, while not healing all wounds, eventually keeps them from being so raw.
I feel like today is one of those days I was crying for then. Today was the unimaginably far-future then, the kind of timescale where I knew I'd be doing what I do now: pouring a whiskey and feeling wistful and otherwise just trying to get through my day.
They all start to blur together, and honestly my mind doesn't make very good memories when I am very depressed. Will I remember this in future or will it be mistaken with other years or fall out of my memory all together?
I hate crying and I am uncomfortable when a fuss is made of me, but I am also uncomfortable if I succeed too well at being normal. I know it's silly but normal feels like I don't remember, I don't still care, I don't still miss him.
I always say I don't mind the anniversary so much because he's no more gone on this day than any other. Yet it's particularly hard for my mom, so by proxy thanks to my silent fretting I still feel the date looming in my calendar. I still pour myself a drink of whatever nice alcohol is in the house. I still mention it on social media, to friends I'm mad never got to meet him. Nobody knows who he is for thousands of miles and yet, here I am. "Gaslighting" is too serious a word but it feels helpless in some similar way to be talking about something desperately important to you but which there are no words to convey: I had a brother. He was named Chris. He was twenty-one. My family and my life will never feel right any more without him.
I knew I'd get better, that life is demanding (especially when you're planning to get married and emigrate in less than two months), that people are resilient and that time, while not healing all wounds, eventually keeps them from being so raw.
I feel like today is one of those days I was crying for then. Today was the unimaginably far-future then, the kind of timescale where I knew I'd be doing what I do now: pouring a whiskey and feeling wistful and otherwise just trying to get through my day.
They all start to blur together, and honestly my mind doesn't make very good memories when I am very depressed. Will I remember this in future or will it be mistaken with other years or fall out of my memory all together?
I hate crying and I am uncomfortable when a fuss is made of me, but I am also uncomfortable if I succeed too well at being normal. I know it's silly but normal feels like I don't remember, I don't still care, I don't still miss him.
I always say I don't mind the anniversary so much because he's no more gone on this day than any other. Yet it's particularly hard for my mom, so by proxy thanks to my silent fretting I still feel the date looming in my calendar. I still pour myself a drink of whatever nice alcohol is in the house. I still mention it on social media, to friends I'm mad never got to meet him. Nobody knows who he is for thousands of miles and yet, here I am. "Gaslighting" is too serious a word but it feels helpless in some similar way to be talking about something desperately important to you but which there are no words to convey: I had a brother. He was named Chris. He was twenty-one. My family and my life will never feel right any more without him.