Mother's Day was, as I'd assumed it would be, hard. It's always difficult to wake up sad and then fight negative emotions all day long. But that's pretty much what I did. And I got through it. I'm hoping that one day, I won't just get through those special days. I'm hoping that I'll find joy in them again. But I don't know when that'll happen. I don't know if it will ever happen. That's one of my biggest fears.
Other than that, I've been in an extended 'crap' mood. I guess that's pretty blunt, but it's the truth. Tired, betrayed, forgotten. It stinks, but I've discovered a painful truth: people forget about you around the 3-month marker. I could stop and apologize to everyone who's stayed present, but the underlying truth still remains: I feel forgotten. I feel like Logan's been forgotten.
It's not that I expect the world to slow down because I lost my son. Okay, well, maybe I do. But I know that's not a realistic desire. No one else will care about what happened to Logan like my family does. It won't ever mean as much to anyone else. Everyone else on the planet will do what they do when something tragic happens to someone else: send a note of condolence (or say nothing at all, which, if I may repeat of the upteenth time, I precisely the wrong thing to do to someone like me) and then move on with life. I get that. But it's painful when the notes stop coming. When the letters notifying us that a donation has been made in Logan's honor become fewer and farther between. When it feels like everyone else feels like it's time to move on. When it feels like others feel like maybe I should just buck up and deal with what happened and... get over it. As if that would ever happen. As Miranda Lambert sings in her hubby Blake Shelton's song Over You, which was written in memory of his brother who passed away as a teen, I'll never get over him. I don't want to get over him. I just want to find a way to incorporate his memory into my life in a way that's not excruciatingly painful. I don't know how to do that.I guess the only other thing I want to say is this: cut me some slack. I'm pretty much in hell, so I like to think that maybe, just maybe, some of the less-than-smart things I say could be pardoned without comment. I feel judged, and I don't need that on top of my grief. Believe me, I really don't.