Resentful

Today was my first day alone. I did stupid things like watch video and look at pictures of Mazzy. I miss her. I had a different idea of what today would be like. She was going to help me prepare for Adam’s birthday tomorrow. We were going to make cards and bake a cake.

I went in to her room today, like a crazy person. I sat on the floor next to her laundry basket and smelled her clothes. I haven’t been able to make myself wash them, yet. If I was a less sane person I would have rolled around with her clothes on the floor. When I started fantasizing about never leaving the room ever again, I made myself get up and make our bed.

This year is stretching out like when you are driving down the road and there are clouds in front of you, but the storm is so large you can’t see the other side. I have to tell myself every morning that it is okay to get up. I am leaning towards just writing this year off. Just get up every day and work and make no plans. If I can make it a year, maybe it all won’t hurt so bad and I can stop feeling so raw and trust the future to stop kicking my ass.

The weekend after Mazzy died I lost weight. I walked in to the hospital still heavy with left-over baby weight. I walked out, leaving my daughter behind, nearly twenty pounds lighter. No joke. I went from a size six to a size one in a matter of hours. I resent every missing pound. When I look in the mirror I no longer see the softly rounded face and body of the woman that was Mazzy’s mother. She is missing, replaced by angles and dark circles and a dip where a pooch once was. I want to look like I am a mother. I took great pride in carrying her and I feel robbed. The Universe didn’t just take my daughter, it is as if they are erasing any evidence that she existed at all.