I have days where I wake up OK.
Days like yesterday, where the boy is kicking, and I focus on that, and the fact that yellow sunshine is poking its nose through the blinds, and that the air outside is warm.
And I have days like today.
Where I wake up with my throat already thick and swollen and aching with the fast-growing lump that you'd think would be big enough to prevent the sobs from choking out, but somehow, it is not.
Where I put one foot in front of the other and make it all the way to the office. But the deep breaths and the mind-numbing work that I am ostensibly focusing on don't actually keep the tears from flowing down my cheeks.
The funny part is that now, instead of disappearing into my lap, they bead up on top of my stomach. I happened to glance down to find a little tear colony staring up at me
There's this vast chasm between what I understand intellectually and what I feel.
Because I know in my mind that it wasn't that he wanted to go, that he stuck it out as long as he could. That he really wanted to be here. That he didn't want to leave us.
My brain, somewhere my brain knows this. But not the rest of me.
My skin feels so thin. Like my clothing could scrape beneath the surface and light touches could bruise down to my organs. My heart just feels so exposed, so raw. Fragile and raw.