That Kind of Day

It's the kind of day I don't know what to do with.

I want take every heavy glass anything I own and smash it against the wall and scream the entire time, but of course, I can't, so I don't. What kind of lunatic does that anyway.

And I want someone to scream to, not necessarily at, but to, and there is no one so I try to keep calm, look good, pull off the day well...and I end up with a body tight with tension and a throbbing head.
Then I find myself once again a sobbing mess on my knees on the floor in my bedroom with no words other than, "Please fix this." Knowing it's a kazillion to one chancce of it being "fixed". It's more likely going to be survived and learned from.

And I finally give in to the pain and nausea and take meds to help me get it under control, and I doze off....only to be awakened by the sound of children screaming at each other over...a Lego piece. And I know it's not really a Lego piece.

It's about the fact they are in the habit of not sleeping, and they have been up past 2 am clamoring around in their skin since Anna landed the role of Willie Wonka, and I wonder if they even know why. I have a guess that it has something to do with Rob telling them if he could be any character from any movie it would be Willie Wonka, and it just so happens that the ony production is the 15th, five months from the time he died.

It's about the fact they are anger and hurt, too, and all the "emotion" projects and "processing" doesn't change the fact they are angry at God for letting him die and angry at him for leaving in the first place...and while screaming about how he abandoned them, miss him more than their words could ever express.

So I feel overwhelmed because I'm the only one in this. Oh, I know. God is in it. I do KNOW that. But I'm the only human, and I'm tired. And I so desperately want a break, and there isn't one, and really, two hours away doesn't solve anything because when I come home, Anna still hates being the organizationally-challenged artist, and Robert still doesn't want to go to friends' houses because it hurts him that they have a dad and he doesn't but he doesn't want to tell them that because...really, who gets mad at friends because they have dads?

And I'm tired of well-meaning people who throw out opinions and judgments and don't care about knowing the truth, and they don't know.

They don't know what it is like to hear their son say he doesn't "want to be manly because men just lie and leave." And they don't know what it's like to hear their daughter ask, "Why did Dad not love you so much he'd leave us?" And they don't know what it is like to lie in bed at 2:00 am wide awake with no one to talk to about it and no one to simply reach over and touch so you don't feel totally alone. But they have all the answers.

And they are more than happy to tell me who to date, when to date, and not to date at all...because after all, *I* don't need a man.

Of course, they aren't the ones asking God to send a godly example for their sons so they can learn that not all men lie and not all men leave...and it's okay to be a man because they can be men of integrity and honor or for a man who can show their daughters that daddies who believe they are worth fighting for do exist.

And today I am grasping for a vision. Shoot, I'll just take directions for the next step. And I just want to go in my closet, close the door, and lie on the floor and find some kind of quiet, except I can't...because I can't abandon the kids, and there is no one else to step in. If I don't do this...whatever THIS is....it won't get done. Then I think I'll just drop off FB so no one hears me scream, but then I get emails and phone calls telling me Satan is trying to isolate me so he can defeat me and by disappearing I'm letting him win. I laugh because I realize I'm already isolated.

And there is no cavalry.

And I question all the progress I thought we'd made, and I wonder if we've healed at all or if I am wishful thinking. My counselor assures me we are doing great. Dear God, what does "bad" look like?
I feel that I have no place to rest. If I say anything, I get cliches and pat answers, and if I don't, I get told I'm an easy target and willing isolation victim. And I don't have the energy to smile and say, "Fine," when people ask how I am so I can avoid all of the above.

And my back aches and my shoulders ache and my head aches...and my heart...aches.

Yep, it's been that kind of day.