Lately, I feel like I could start every post with that title. Hell, every conversation even.
But today included a serious WTF moment.
It’s not often you can pinpoint the exact moment when the shit hits the fan… but for me today, it was 1:58 pm.
I was on hwy 77 South, just starting to cross the bridge and it came out of nowhere. “IT’S THURSDAY! IT’S BEEN 6 WEEKS SINCE NATALIE DIED!
I felt ill. How could I forget? I mean, the past five weeks, I’ve dreaded each Thursday. I usually started on Sunday night or Monday morning and it would grow with each passing hour. By Wednesday, I was trying to hide out in my bed for as long as possible. And for what? To avoid thinking about THAT DAY? That doesn’t work so well. I spend almost as much time/energy/effort on trying to avoid thinking about Thursdays as I do on actual grieving!
Last night, watching the home videos, I don’t know. I don’t know if that was such a good idea. It was almost like watching the impossible. The past came back to life. Grandma and Grandpa Scott at Christmas… hearing their voices, hearing grandma say my name again, such a double edged sword.
This time period was way before Justin was born and I don’t think I ever realized how much we depended on each other for … everything. Sharing, loving, trading, goofing off, teamwork… And I realized I never thanked her. I mean, we told each other we loved each other but we veterans (of sorts) who served together in life’s unavoidable war. I don’t think she knew how much our shared experience and the individual ways we dealt with it meant to me. I don’t think I knew how much it meant to me.
I pulled over to wipe my eyes and clear my head. I took a deep breath and saw her at two years old. Four years old. Pre-teen, with braces and a mouth guard. Those ridiculously high teased bangs and premature makeup. I saw her grow and mature. Get swept up in friends. In boys. In drugs.
My heart started to race. “I have to call her. I need to talk to her right now!”
I pulled up the keypad on my phone and realized she wouldn’t answer.
Where was her phone, anyway? Still at the police station? In a baggy, locked in an evidence box? Did the phone company take it back?
“Fuck! I have to see her, where is she?”
The Rolodex of memories flip to our first house. The second house on Hidden Oaks Drive. The last house. Her apartment. The skyline. How long was I staring at those buildings six weeks ago? Oh Jesus. She’s gone. I see the casket. The flames. Ashes. The urn…
Oh my God, she’s gone.
In my mind, I run to her empty apartment. I break down the door. I search frantically for her, but of course, she’s not there.
Just some clothes and makeup. More shoes than any human could possibly wear in a lifetime.
I resume my freak out in the car. Crying and screaming. Damn, I was so hoping to be done with the screaming….