My brood of five have been on the rougher side lately. Throwing fries. Spitting on each other. Provoking wrath of younger siblings. This was a recent conversation as we drove in the car...
Me: "Ian, don't make me come back there and hog tie you!" Ian: "What is that? Can she do that?" Me: "Yes, I can." Ian: "How did she learn to do that?" Samuel: "She learned it in school (pause) or girl scouts"
I'm sitting here, typing in bed after getting up multiple times in the night. I've had a tough infection. And as painful as it has been the past couple of days it doesn't exceed the pain in my heart.
I miss Libby. My sister. And it hurts. Hurts so bad. I still dream about her... usually once a week. I still ache for her and miss her laugh and miss her telling me something ridiculous just to get me to laugh. I miss her blue, blue eyes and her dark hair. I miss having my sister.
It's March. And I hate it. And I'm once again reminded that she's gone. I'm continually reminded by that whatever I'm doing, going, being... it's just that March makes it feel real in a way I can't explain. I feel it in my body.... all the way to my bones.
I am sure that sounds weird. It's that my body doesn't physically forget the trauma of what happened 11 years ago.
I have been told my numerous counselors, doctors and psychiatrists that I have PTSD (post-traumat…