Death Becomes Her
I’ve been thinking a lot about death lately; mine, specifically.
Last week the longest nap Farrah took was 40 minutes. That happened once and that was it for the day.
I can’t believe her sleep is deteriorating. I didn’t think it possible. If I had to guess I’d say she’s doing the switch from “two” naps to one at a very premature age (9 months) and that her one nap is going to be less than an hour. Death.
I think things like “Why is she trying to kill me when I am the very thing sustaining her?” and “I wish I was dead because that’s the only way I’m going to get a break.” Not that I want to die – the opposite is true – I’m just like Kevin Costner running from the CIA only with less chest hair: there’s just No Way Out. It was a very bad week with lots of anger and outrage, tears and screaming. I am very good at separating what I can do with Farrah and what I can’t (this blog for example) and I cannot fill an entire day, minus 40 minutes, with my 9-month-old. I can, but I don’t want to. I will disappear completely.
I was angry, angry, angry all week long. Thursday night I sobbed in the bathroom, sick and sad and tired of my ugliness. Friday I made it to Acceptance. I had to in order to save us both. I still don’t know what I’m going to do, I have a few ideas (stop writing this blog for example), but I don’t know what it’s going to take or if it’s going to take all of me. I suspect the latter.
I asked Kris to take some pictures of me and Farrah this weekend. I needed to see us being us, the beauty of us. I need something to hold while I’m in Acceptance.