I have to confess that I've been feeling segregated from others for a while now. I've never been especially socially savvy --just ask anyone who knew me in high school, ha-- but I tried. And I've tried harder than ever as an adult. But then we found out Logan was sick and bam, I lost my social life. The one I'd tried so incredibly hard to build. I became a curiosity to some people and a person to be avoided to others. But it never really felt like I had... friends. It was too much to deal with actual, real-live friends when I was trucking back and forth to CHO while 9 months pregnant. And then while I was trucking back and forth to CHO with a newborn and the insanity that prevails with a small herd of kids who rely on you. And now, with all of this horrific crap in the rearview, I feel almost as if the people who were my friends prior to my life going to hell moved on without me. And of others, I find myself wondering 'do they really want to talk to me or do they just feel sorry for me?' I guess that's junior high of me to think that way. Or maybe it's true; I don't know. I only know what I suspect; I don't really know what other people think or want. Nor do I understand their motivations. I can't. I'm not them. I'm just... me. I'm the me who's been charged with being a freak. I'm the one whose kid died. I'm the one who some people just can't bring themselves to talk to because it's SO painful to think of a kid dying that it's easier to just walk away. To pretend that I don't exist at all. But let me tell you: the worst thing you an do to me is to act like Logan didn't exist and like he didn't pass on. I extend a lot of grace to a lot of people, but I have a hard time forgiving the ones who know what happened yet stay silent. Because it may go away for them as long as they don't think about it, but it will never go away for me.
Anyway. I just ache for my Logan. That's the root of it all, when it comes down to the teeniest of underlying brass tacks. I wish I could touch his little hands. Comb his hair. Smell him. I can't tell you how much I wish I could inhale his scent. How much it would mean to me to be able to put my hand on his chest and feel his little heart throbbing inside. But I can't do those things. And I hate that. There's really no other word for it. But as I've noted one hundred and fifty four kajillion times now, it is what it is. And it is. At least, for now.