Tired

Dear Analin,

I'm sorry I haven't written much. Life right now is more than busy, it's draining. Draining in a good way - we are working hard toward some rewarding goals - but it's taking its toll. I'm so tired and being tired has lead to not thinking about you as much as I'd like. Being tired, I don't have the energy for it. I don't have the energy to think back and grieve, then climb my way out of it to a happier place.

That isn't to say I don't think of you at all. Just last month I had a conversation with one of those wonderful strangers you just bond with about you and your loss. I even told her the hardest parts about the drive home and the morning after. I'd taken care of myself a bit better that day, with a trip to the spa, so the energy had been there. In fact, I even reached that cathartic point of being proud of making it through the grief and sharing the story of my beautiful daughter.

Right now, though, I shy away from thoughts of you. If I didn't, I'm not sure I'd be able to get through it. There's nothing wrong with taking a day to cry and I have done that in the past. The trouble comes from making the pain more than the memory part of my life, and I struggle with that most when I'm tired.

I have suffered from and fought through Depression before and I'm absolutely certain that weighs heavily on my decisions on how to direct my grief. So, I'm employing a lot of avoidance these days. I'm sad about it. I miss you in my thoughts and conversations. The risk, though, is too high when sadness threatens larger than I think I can handle, so high it would affect the rest of our family.

To be clear, it isn't thinking of you I'm afraid of, it's in the sadness crawling out of my soul and settling into my bones. There's a difference to it that is dangerous for me.

I look forward to the day this is all done and I can put my feet up and cry until I smile again. You are worth every tear and every moment. Every day I wish I could be thinking of you in a different way, in the way of my beautiful, drive-me-crazy, two year old toddler. I want to type 'maybe one day,' but, of course, that would be a lie.

I miss you beyond what you could ever know.

Love, Mommy.